The Name of a Hunter
by inappropriately-ginger
Summary: Expected to continue the Winchester legacy of being a Man of Letters, Dean is torn between what to do when he realises that his true calling in life, may have come from his mother's side, and might be in the form of an angel. AU - Man of Letters Academy in which John Winchester was a Man of Letters rather than a hunter.
1. Chapter 1

Staring down at the paper, Dean wished things were different. It wasn't that he didn't understand the charms, or the spells, or whatever else they were asking of him. He wasn't as smart as Sammy, but he wasn't an idiot either. His problem was the complete distance that the Men of Letters took from their world. They _looked_ at the monsters and they studied them – heck, maybe they'd even send a hunter out if things got really bad – but they never took control for the people.

Dean set his pen to the paper and started etching out a sigil in the space provided. Across the hall he saw Ash leaning back in his chair with his hands held behind that haircut of his. Of course Ash was already done; Dean thought with a curse, Ash was top in the class. Luckily, Dean didn't seem to be the only one struggling with the exam they had been set. Two rows down and one row across, Jo Harville was biting the end of her pen and staring at the expanse of concrete wall like it might give her the answer. It wouldn't – Dean had already tried.

By the time the clock at the front of the hall had struck twelve, Dean had answered all the questions that he possibly could without causing an aneurism. Sammy was better with the exam stuff, Dean thought glumly. Once the papers had been collected, each row was dismissed one at a time, meaning that Jo stood and filed out, shooting a worried wink Dean's way. He smiled back with a bite of his lip, and followed her out once his row was told to stand. He grabbed his satchel from the back of the room, and walked through the double doors.

The second he reached the main expanse of hallway, noise and relief hit him like a gust of wind. Within a second he heard small groups chattering about the answer to question 4B but he couldn't remember if he'd answered that one, so he did his best to ignore them. Ash met him by the main stairwell with a smug look on his face, which Dean hit away with the back of his hand. Ash laughed out loud.

"Shut up, man," he warned before Ash had even had the chance to brag. "Can we just go?"

"Went that well then, huh Winchester?" the weedy boy grinned. Ash was a certified genius, and allowed to attend the Academy purely out of smarts. It was people like Ash that belonged in the academy – not high school drop outs like Dean.

"I did enough to pass," he hoped out loud.

"That makes one of us," a familiar voice chimed from where the owner was head-butting Dean's arm. Her pretty blonde hair looked ruffled, as though she'd run her hands through it one too many times. Dean tweaked her chin with a sympathetic smile.

"Cheer up, Harville," he smiled. "We've still got the Lore paper to go,"

"Shit," she groaned, and followed Dean towards to the rec-room. Ash spotted a girl with dark hair and a tattooed arm, before winking at Dean and dropping back to talk to her. Beside him, Jo looked glum. "I'm sorry, I know I don't have anything to worry about. My mum won't mind if I fail, but you… Daddy Winchester won't be too pleased-"

"Thanks Jo, I know," he interrupted her. "I wonder how Sammy's getting on," he turned the subject.

Jo pushed her way into the rec-room, fighting past much taller and worried looking sixth years. They'd be taking their final exams within an hour, and seal their fate within the Men of Letters forever. Neither of the fifth years envied them at all. Dean followed Jo as she took place in a green leather seat next to a book shelf. As if anyone read in the rec-room other than Dean's dorky little brother.

"Sam'll be fine. It's only his second year exams and he's probably done better than me," she looked miserable again. "It's not like he'll get chucked out if he can't average at a 5.6 at least,"

"My dad wants me to hit 7," Dean sighed. Jo sucked in breath as though the thought hurt.

John Winchester was a renowned man of letters, as was his father, and his father before that. Being a man of letters was expected of Dean, it was in his blood. When his father had married a mere hunter it had brought shame onto the Winchester name, but his father had reasoned – if the children can be good fighters as well as good thinkers, it'll make them better Men. So far, Dean had not obliged the thought. He'd dropped out of school, joined the academy at sixteen, and even five years on, he wasn't in the top 10% of his class.

Dean liked to fight – that was the problem. He fought with his father about attending the academy, he fought his teachers when they told him that he just wasn't trying hard enough, and he fought the older kids who called him an idiot. Dean Winchester was not an idiot, but he wasn't one of them.

"You not eating?" Jo commented as she pulled out a chicken wrap. Dean shook his head.

"I'll grab something later," the girl stared at him with an eyebrow arched at him. It wasn't often that Dean Winchester denied the opportunity for food. "I'm just not hungry,"

"Yeah, okay," she laughed.

A tall girl entered the room. She had long dark hair that was tied aside in a braid, and her eyes were fixated on Dean.

"Pamela's looking at you again," Jo pointed out. Now it was Dean's turn to laugh. Pamela was a psychic in the year above them, and was about to sit her final exams. She had the brains to help her go far, but if that failed she could just read the smarter kid's minds – that was probably why she looked so confident. Dean was about to reply to Jo just as Pamela walked over to him. Her heels must've been against uniform regulation.

"Dean Winchester, how'd the exam go?" she smiled at Jo as she took the chair opposite them.

"Don't act like you don't already know, Pammy,"

"I hate it when you call me that," she informed him with a kind smile. "So do you think you passed?"

"Who knows?" he sighed.

"You going to Rufus' later?" Rufus' was the bar in the centre of town, and this evening the majority of fifth and sixth years took it upon themselves to celebrate another exam finished.

"Nope," Dean shook his head.

"Jo?"

"Too young," Jo didn't actually turn twenty one for another few weeks.

"Shame," Pamela smiled. "It would've been nice to see you," and with that she jumped up, winked, and went over to a new group of friends.

"She likes you," Jo pointed out.

"I guessed,"

"Why're you not going to Rufus'?" Jo asked him. Everyone had assumed that Dean would be going, but in truth his father was home for the evening, and hadn't been in weeks.

"No reason," he lied. "I just didn't fancy it.

The bell rang to signal the next period, and Jo and Dean watched all the worried bodies walk down towards the exam hall with a smile. Pamela was at the back of the group and shot Dean an anxious grin. Everyone else looked like they were going to vomit. That wouldn't be them until next year – if they were allowed to stay on – Dean thought thankfully. Finally, Jo stood.

"You don't have class?" she asked him as she threw her bag over her shoulder. Dean shook his head.

"We've already taken the damn exam for the subject, I don't see why I should go and learn about what I didn't know during the exam," he growled, making Jo smile as she walked off without complaint. She knew Dean, and she knew that sometimes he just needed to do what wasn't expected of him. Dean watched her go, thankful that she hadn't pushed him.

The rec-room was blessedly silent as lessons started, with only one boy in the corner scribbling into a small book. Dean took the time to pull out an old journal that he'd found amongst his mother's possessions and flip through the pages. It was a hunter's journal – thick and leather bound, with the pages doodled, crossed out, and messy. None of this organised knowledge crap. When he came to the pages that hadn't been filled in, Dean flicked to the front again, starting to flip through once more.

On one page, Dean saw his mother's artistic recreation of a wendigo, with a scribble besides denoting it as "rare, but dangerous". Most of his revision of lore came from his mother's old journal, and so it was that thought that kept him feeling guiltless as the time passed by and he reread pages on vampires and ghouls.

However, Dean had the sneaking suspicion that none of his professors would see it that way. Outside of the room Dean heard voices growing, coming towards him. Being the headquarters for the Men of Letters, people walking around wherever and whenever was not unheard of, but it was the voice itself that made Dean look up. He recognised one of the two.

"All is well, then?" a deep gravel of voice asked. Dean stuffed the journal into his satchel and jumped from his chair.

"Yes Castiel," another voice replied. This voice, Dean recognised. It was Professor Singer. Sure enough, just as Dean reached the door to exit the rec-room in attempt to jump out without being caught, the Professor reached it, leaving Dean jumping back into the room in case he'd been seen. Professor Singer made an audible sigh before popping his head into the room, right beside Dean's face. "Mr Winchester, don't you have class?"

Dean went to shake his head, before the older man grabbed the scruff of his shirt and pulled him forwards. In a whisper barely escaping the side of his mouth he growled, "Don't show me up, boy. There is a damn angel here," before dropping Dean with a smile. Dean nodded, Bobby was a close friend of his dad's, and if Dean managed not to embarrass him in front of one of God's messengers, then Bobby might not tell his dad about him skipping class. He winked.

"No sir," Dean started. "I've err… been assigned to the gym for this study period," he spoke innocently, a childlike smile lighting up his face. Bobby stepped back with a nod, ready to turn back to his angel friend and continue their tour, but something must've been amiss, because with the sound of a whipping sheet, Dean felt a presence behind him, rather than behind Professor Singer.

"I'd like to see the gym," the deep voice spoke. Air brushed past Dean's ear, making him shiver from the proximity. He'd heard that angels didn't understand human boundaries, but this seemed silly.

Slowly, Dean turned to finally see the owner of the voice. He was shorter than Dean by the smallest fraction, and everything from his messy hair to scruffy tie spoke "out of work teacher" over "angel of the lord", but the colour of his eyes insisted that he was from heaven. Dean nodded, wanting to shuffle back from the angel, but being caught between the wall and Professor Singer.

"I'd err… love to show you?" he asked of Professor Singer, who looked mildly alarmed but nodded anyway.

"Of course," Bobby said. "That's fine, follow me," he gestured for the angel to step forward, and as he did, the older man shot one angry look at Dean and followed suit.


	2. Chapter 2

When they reached the gym, Dean had reached the conclusion that angels were weird. The angel hadn't taken the walk with Dean and Bobby, but rather disappeared as they had started towards the gym, and had been in the changing room waiting with a ham sandwich and a bottle of apple juice in each hand when they arrived. Having never met one of God's servants before, Dean hadn't quite known what he was getting himself into.

"I sensed your blood sugar levels were low," was the only explanation he gave upon handing Dean the food. "You can't exercise on an empty stomach," Dean nodded and took the food sheepishly.

"Er, thanks," he said, before taking a bite of the sandwich. It was pretty good.

Professor Singer took the time Dean spent eating, in order to show "Castiel" around the gym. Naturally it was empty; Men of Letters preferring their libraries to their lifting. From what Dean could tell from Bobby's explanation, the angel was visiting on some sort of check-up of the academy, and as the Vice-Head of the school, it was Bobby's job to impress. And now; apparently, Dean's. He took a bite of his sandwich and watched as the angel considered the treadmill.

Dean finished his lunch with a swash of apple juice and nodded at Bobby to show his readiness. Contrary to his academia, Dean strived at the physical side of his work, and was earning a high 8 in every fighting class available. It was the only thing that had been keeping him in school for two years, something which his father was angrily thankful for. Apparently, John Winchester didn't send his sons to the top academy in the world for them to become personal trainers.

Sam had just turned seventeen, and had finally finished his rebellious stage. However, during this time, the youngest Winchester had taken to training with Dean, learning to fight, and even in the aftermath of that, Sam enjoyed to box and play about with his brother. But Sam understood that for men of letters, it wasn't about being physically able, not when you could be mentally so.

Deciding how to best show off (in order to make Bobby look good, obviously), Dean walked forwards towards the wooden block, that had been dented so many times, it was almost falling apart. He picked out the knife that someone (probably himself) had stabbed into the heart of the dummy, and dropped into fighting position. Bobby took the liberty of explaining what Dean was doing, and that he was (surprisingly) the top of his class. Dean struck out at the dummy, a little slower than he would like, but his uniform constricted his movements. Had been be allowed to unbutton the white shirt and replace the tight dress-trousers with a pair of jeans, Dean would be able to gank the thing with much more grace.

Castiel was staring on at Dean as though he were fascinating. Dean would lash out at the lifeless block of wood, and retract as though it had hurt him. Then he would dash around the thing and stab into the bulk of its back. The boy's eyes kept darting from the dummy, and back to Castiel, who stood entranced by the dance that Dean had set out. It made Dean blush and straighten up.

"So er…" he started. "Do you wanna go?" Dean held out the knife. It could do with sharpening (or replacing all together) but Castiel eyed it as though it was dangerous.

"I have never used a knife before," he commented. Bobby looked worried that Dean had upset their inspector, but Dean continued with a smile.

"C'mon, I'll show you," he offered. Castiel seemed hesitant but stepped forwards. He took the knife, but not before removing the scruffy cream trench coat, and laying it on one of the pieces of equipment.

Dean put the handle of the knife into the angel's hand, arranging it so that the finger dents matched his strangely graceful fingers. Then, he showed Castiel how to stand, jumping on the tip of his toes so that movement in all directions was easy. Seeing the angel copy his movements made Dean want to laugh, but he didn't, instead he gestured how to stab at the thing, and clapped when Castiel hit it. Dean had seen more accuracy from Ash (which was saying something), but he applauded nonetheless.

"My true form is just getting used to my vessel," he commented, having sensed Dean's reaction. Dean nodded, pulled the knife easily from the dummy and handed it back to Castiel. The dark haired man stared at him, before re-enacting Dean's previous movements and bouncing around the block, stabbing it gently in the back.

"You're doing well," Dean lied, clapping his hands together once.

"I am not. That attack would not have killed a mere human, never mind a monster," Castiel's voice was grave and emotionless, and there was something about his words that struck a chord with Dean. The angel thought that he was weak. He'd show him just how strong a mere human could be.

"Not if you attack like that," he growled. "It's a knife, not a paper plane, you have to put some force into it," Dean took the knife from the angel and with a flick of his wrist had thrown it until it was dented into the wood. He motioned for Castiel to retrieve the weapon, and when he did, he had trouble shaking it from the dummy.

"In heaven we have special weapons. We have no need for cutlery to defend ourselves," he growled, turning to shoot Dean a scowl. Behind them, Bobby didn't look happy with how the lesson was going. Dean sauntered towards the angel and ripped the knife from the dummy with a resounding crunch, and stared down at Castiel, taking advantage of the two inch height difference.

"That must be why the war is going so great," Dean suggested venomously. "Maybe if you guys trained how to actually _dent_ wooden dummies, you'd be able to kill some demons,"

The look he received was one so inhuman, his knife hand flinched. Castiel was staring up at Dean, but it was Dean who felt small. It was Dean who was twenty one years old, and Castiel who was as old as the world. And in that moment, Castiel flared out, letting the light that escaped his eyes shiver down his hand and hit the wooden block. But Dean couldn't look away. The Winchester had never been so scared, but with that, he had never felt quite so brave, as to stand staring the impossible being right in the eyes.

An alarm sounded, and it was only at the feel of the sprinklers raining down on him that he noticed the enflamed wooden dummy, and was able to remove his glare from the angel. In turn, the angel's gaze was stuck on Dean as though interested by what he might do. A trickle of water dripped down his temple, leaving a mop of previously messy hair sticking to his forehead. The angel cocked his head, almost challenging the boy. But he was an angel, not a human. Dean wondered if the vessel the angel had taken could even feel the rain.

"You set a fire in the gym!" John was shouting at Dean for the fifth time that evening. The entire academy had to be removed from lessons, resulting in Dean being caught skipping class, as well as apparently arson. Bobby had said nothing in Dean's defence. It was, after all, Dean who had provoked the angel of the lord into setting fire to random pieces of exercise equipment.

"I didn't set the fire. The angel set the fire," Dean tried to explain calmly, but his father wasn't hearing any of it.

"You do realise how dangerous fir es are, Dean? Or do you forget your mother?" Dean took a deep breath in. He wanted to hit him, just for bringing it up. He wanted to shout that this was nothing like that – there had been no demons after his little brother – and that the fire wasn't even dangerous. There had only been an angel, angry that Dean had pissed it off. The fire wasn't going to kill anybody, and it wasn't his fault anyway. Did he mention the immature angel of the lord?

But instead, Dean nodded and waited for the lecture to be over. When his father had finally run out of steam, he gestured for Dean to leave, and watched his oldest son leave the room with the shimmering green eyes the smiled out from a wedding photo on his desk. It killed him how much Dean reminded him of Mary. How much flair he had for finding trouble, how he would defy everybody except for John Winchester. Sam was very much like himself, which had left their relationship in tatters over the past few years, but the boy was settling in the academy; accepting becoming a Man of Letters over going to normal college. Dean never questioned his father, but his father was beginning to question him.

In his room, Dean had one wall decked with an array of knives that he had collected over the years. They were all different lengths, colours, and shapes, but each one shined and reflected his face as he stared into them. Dean had never used a knife on a real monster before. Only ever wooden dummies or vegetables, when he was forced to cook for Sam whilst their father was away on business. The closest he'd come to stabbing anyone had been earlier that day.

His room was full of little things. There was a record player that Bobby had given him years ago, that he'd been meaning to fix up. There were matching records – some classic rock, some classic roll. A necklace Sam had given him for Christmas when he was twelve hung up on a cork board, because he wasn't allowed to wear it to the Academy. His room was so full of little things that it looked messy, but really it was just lived in, because Dean liked to have his own space.

Dean was eyeing up his knives when he realised that right now it wasn't his own space. As he turned away from the wall, Dean was stunned to see a short (and now considerably drier) angel stood next to the foot of his bed. He swore in shock, and jumped back against the drawers that held his clothes, whilst Castiel tilted his head as though he was confused. Dean wondered how he knew where he lived.

"Fuck man, what're you doing?" he demanded, wondering if it would be worth removing one of the knives to keep himself safe. But then he realised that he had no idea how he could go able harming, never mind killing, an angel. The thought didn't make him feel safer, so he gripped the drawers tighter.

"I wanted to apologise," Castiel spoke as one who had words put into their mouths. But then, he had spoken like that before hand – as though this language was not natural to him. Dean nodded in a gesture to allow him to continue. When he was met with silence, he added,

"Go on then," the angel stared at him. He stared back.

"I'm sorry that I set your training toy on fire," Castiel said. Dean scoffed, and gawked at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Is that it?" he quizzed. Castiel looked confused.

"That is not what you are upset about?" Dean shook his head. "I thought humans were purely materialistic creatures," he mused.

"See! That, right there," Dean said, throwing his hands up and walking around the other side of the bed. He leant against the window sill, staring intently at the puzzled looking angel. "All of this… humans are materialistic, humans are weak, humans need sandwiches to be able to train…"

"Did you not like your meal?" Castiel worried.

"No, It was great, but that's not the point, dude!" Dean sighed. "The point is, that you don't break into a guy's room and tell him that he's nothing but a mere human, it's annoying,"

"I didn't break in. Nothing is broken," Castiel pointed out.

"Dude,"

Castiel stared at Dean. Dean felt as though he was under his father's scrutiny once more, but there was something about the gentleness of the blue eyes; something that spoke of willing to understand, rather than angry vengeance.

"Not all humans are weak," Dean sighed, trying to make the angel see. His thoughts wondered to what his father might say if he was caught with an angel in his bedroom – an arson angel – and dropped his voice.

"In comparison to angels you are very weak," Castiel insisted, and Dean wondered who it would hurt more if he were to punch the angel straight in the nose. Probably himself.

"God prefers us," Dean quipped childishly. "Or he would if he existed,"

"God exists,"

"Okay," Dean rolled his eyes. "Then isn't daddy going to be wondering why you're hiding out in my bedroom?"

"I wanted to apologise," Castiel repeated.

"For setting fire to my toys?" Dean quizzed with a bite of sarcasm. Castiel's eyes narrowed, looking as though he wanted to say 'of course, what else?', but there was something that held him back.

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

"Your brother's coming…" he said finally. Dean blinked, wanting to force the apology out of him, and maybe even strangle him with the stupid blue tie that dangled loosely around his neck.

"What?" he demanded, but the angel was already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam burst into the room and sighed deeply before spotting Dean. The younger Winchester had let his hair grow out until his fringe swept across his forehead, and his brown eyes were staring in both confusion and helplessness at his older brother, who was halfway between shouting for Castiel. Instead a half strangled "Cas!" came out. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asked immediately. Straightening up, Dean tried to force the tension from his shoulders. Instead, the crossed arms and grunt made him look deeply annoyed.

"Nothing," he shook his head, "why are you in here?" Sammy stared up at him, letting his previous angst return to his face as he flopped down onto his brother's bed. "Did the exam go okay?"

"Yup," Sam mumbled from the bed. Dean left the silence for less than a second before Sam couldn't bare it. "I'm in love,"

"Get out," Dean pointed to the door, but when Sam raised his head and stared at him with the big puppy eyes, he was forced to drop his arm. "Dammit, Sammy,"

"She's perfect," he groaned in the same needy tone of desperation and sadness. Dean blinked and stared at his brother before stepping forwards and sitting on the side of his double bed. Sam was sprawled across the majority of it, but Dean managed to fold one leg under his body and get comfortable. He rolled his eyes before asking…

"What's she called?" he sighed, ready to spend the rest of the evening listening to Sam's problems.

"Jessica," Sam sat up and looked straight into Dean's eyes. The kid loved to have someone to chat with all this about, and even though Dean didn't really like it, he still listened, he gave advice. Sam would never turn to his father for help, and they didn't have a mother to be able to point him in the right direction. So even as the younger boy listed off the multiple qualities that her hair alone possessed, and the small intricacies of her smile, Dean nodded.

"So… enough about Jess. Who's Cas?" Sam finished, and it took Dean a moment to realise that he'd moved the conversation on and expected a reply.

"Huh?" Dean shook his head. "Oh, just no one,"

"Then why did you look like you were ready to kill me the second I walked in here?" Sam nagged. He was good at that. Even when Dean didn't want to talk, Sam would be there to make him. Sometimes it was like having an annoying inner monologue that needed to voice itself, but sometimes it was nice to get things off of his chest.

"I was just annoyed from the thing with the fire and dad," he stammered, hoping the half lie would please his brother.

"That's such crap." Sam sighed. "You should just tell dad that he's an idiot, and that _he_ started the fire,"

"Who?" Dean puzzled. "Dad didn't start the fire,"

"Not dad! The angel," Sam sighed. Dean nodded. He _should_ tell his father that, but there was no chance in hell that he was going to. The angel wasn't taking any form of responsibility for the incident, so it had to be Dean to take the full grunt of the blame. And in any case, the less Dean had to do with Castiel, the better.

"So he just showed up in your room?" Jo laughed in Dean's face as he finished his retelling of the previous night's incident. "And left without so much as a goodbye?" They were standing outside of the gym in their workout clothes – waiting for Professor Novak to appear. The hallway was cramped with bored looking fifth years, who wanted nothing more than to skip gym and spend time revising for the important subject.

"Pretty much," he sighed. Ash was staring at him with an incredulous gaze.

"How very Romeo and Juliet," she commented. Dean coughed with confusion.

"Excuse me, were you not listening? The guy sets fires and has me blamed for it," the boy spluttered.

"Geez man, you should've just come to Rufus'," he said finally. Dean couldn't help but agree. From what he'd heard from Ash, Pamela, and just about everyone in the rest of his classes, the party at Rufus' had been wild. Ash had finally scored with the tattooed girl from the day before, Mattie Johnson had declared his love for Jason, his best friend, and Cassie Smith had been seen leaving with a tall, gorgeous stranger. Instead, Dean had spent his evening wondering if angels thought strongly against hate-prayers.

"He was too busy fretting about 'Cas'," Jo swooned with a giggle. "Hey, Dean – do you think he'll come back again tonight to try and "apologise" a little better,"

"Those thoughts you're having Jo?" Ash said. "I'm pretty sure they're blasphemous,"

"Guys!" Dean shouted. "Do you mind?" Ash and Jo exchanged looks.

"Not really," they admitted in unison, just as Professor Novak turned the corner into the corridor, meaning that if Dean wanted to kick their asses, it'd have to be in the competitive sport sense.

Novak pushed the doors to the gym open easily and drew the class in. Everyone dumped their bags beside the bleachers, and Dean couldn't help but spot the burnt mess of dummy that the angel had enflamed the day before. He supressed a grin.

"Now, we were going to practise knife work, but someone fired our dummy, and I've spoken to Professor Milton, and she says it's against our practise to use certain students in their place," Novak's eyes rested on Dean. He smiled back.

"I don't know, sir. I doubt I'd even get grazed," which caused a stir amongst his classmates.

"Well then, Mr Winchester," Novak grinned. "As much as I admire your utter arrogance, I think we'll be fighting without knives today. But whoever wishes to pair with the school-arson is welcome to use whatever they see fit to win," he said with a laugh. Dean joined in. "No volunteers?"

The rest of the class was still, before Jo stepped forwards with her hand raised. Dean winked to her.

"I'll go easy on you," he promised, with a goofy grin. Jo glared at him and pushed him to the other side of the gym as Novak paired off other students. Ash ended up working with Aaron Luthman; a sixth year who had failed the year previously. Luthman was big, and beside Ash he looked even bigger.

"We're a number short," Novak announced. "Has anyone seen Cassie?"

"Not since she left the party last night," one of the guys stood near Dean whistled low. Most people in the room had either been at the party, or had heard what had happened, but no one other than Dean and Jo seemed to exchange a glance that couldn't be described as "imaginative".

"Right then, Bradley, you can help Mr Miles there," the teacher pointed Ray Bradley to stand beside Ash. Even together Aaron Luther looked like he could take them.

Professor Novak sounded the whistle that signalled the training to start. By this point in the year, everyone knew most of the moves – it was just the execution of them that stumped some people. Jo stared at Dean with a challenging grimace – he'd promised to go easy on her. Something she would not let him forget. The small blonde lashed forwards, bringing an arm up to hit the taller boy's face, whilst simultaneously blocking a hit that he had attempted. Neither fighter made the hit, but the broke apart and grinned to each other.

"You know, Dean," Jo told him as she kicked out her leg, hitting him in the knee as he got a hit to the face. Dean knew that he didn't need to go easy on Jo, because she was strong. But he did anyway. Partially because she was like his little sister, and he'd go easy on Sammy if they were paired together, and partially because he was terrified of her mother. "I think you're distracted today,"

Dean ducked; dodging a punch Jo had thrown, and brought her down to the floor with a swipe of his leg. She rediscovered her footing and got a good punch in to his gut. Dean shook his head as he caught his breath.

"Distracted?" Jo nodded. "If I was distracted could I do this?" he went to knock her to the ground once more, but just as he twisted his body to drop her, his eyes caught something staring at him from the window outside. With his second of hesitation, Jo knocked Dean's feet out from under him, and sat on his chest. Disoriented and confused, Dean clapped, wrestled her off, and stared back to the window.

"Did you see something?" Jo asked sweetly. Dean's eyebrow dropped and he looked confused, but shook his head nonetheless.

"I think I need some water," he excused himself and headed towards the door.

"Mr Winchester, where do you think you're going?" Professor Novak called. He had Luthman in a headlock and Ash looked unconscious next to him. Dean smiled innocently.

"Water, bit of a headache," he lied.

"Yeah, yeah," Novak rolled his eyes, but nodded. "Off you go,"

In truth, Dean had no idea where he thought he was going. He was starting to see things – things specifically meaning tan trench coats and animalistic blue eyes staring at him through gymnasium windows – but water wouldn't help that. He would hardly know where to go to look for an angel, as his heavenly rocket-ship had run out of fuel, and there was no chance in hell that he would admit his crazy visions to anyone. Instead, Dean decided to head towards the cafeteria.

He wore the kit that was expected of them during gym sessions: a white t-shirt with the small Man of Letters symbol, white sweatpants, and white trainers. No one questioned his attire, or the sweat dripping down his forehead. Dean Winchester could often be found in a state of being beaten up, bloodied and battered. Today, the only thing that drew attention to him were his searching eyes.

When he reached the water fountain, Dean had decided that he just hadn't slept enough. Hallucinations were normal when you hadn't gotten much sleep, and if they happened to be about an annoying angel that randomly popped up in your bedroom in the middle of the night, then that was normal too. Or at least that's what Dean told himself as he took a sip from the water fountain, raised his head and almost spat the water down the blue suit and tie that stood before him. He was sure he hadn't been there a second ago.

"Hello Dean," Castiel said in his deep tone. Dean rolled his eyes, swallowed his water and glared.

"What're you, stalking me now?" he growled, looking around the canteen to see if anyone was looking at him oddly. The angel had appeared out of nowhere, but he was getting no weird looks.

"They can't see me, Dean,"

"Oh great, so not only am I a weakling human, but I'm also a crazy one?" he demanded of the angel, before trying to push past him. But he was solid, and as Dean pushed against his chest, he realised that the angel wasn't moving.

"You are a human, weakness is expected of you Dean," Castiel told him matter of factly.

"Cas," Dean warned. "Get out of my way, and stop following me,"

"I still need to apologise," he informed the Winchester. Dean wanted to punch him. "I have been informed by my brothers that my behaviour of yesterday could be seen as rude,"

"Oh really, did they spell it out for you?"

"There was no need for spelling. I speak perfectly fluently enochian," Castiel's head was tilted, until his ear was almost touching his shoulder. "But I am very sorry for upsetting your human pride,"

"My human pride?" Dean stared, as though he couldn't understand what he was being told.

"Yes. You may not be aware of it, but it is the reason you're so upset," Castiel informed him.

"Well thanks for the apology, but you're not forgiven. I have to get back to class," he tried once more to push past the angel, but even as he sauntered away, he could tell it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Dean, wait," Castiel started, but then lost himself in the same expression he'd worn yesterday. "Something is wrong,"

"Yeah – it's called a lousy apology and a future restraining order," Dean mumbled, but Cas didn't hear him. Instead, he held out a finger.

"Cassandra Smith has been found dead," he spoke as though he was reading the news. Dean thought back to what everyone had said about the party.

"She was at Rufus'… she left with some guy?" Dean pondered. "Are you sure she's dead?"

"Her soul has been sent away," Castiel confirmed. "I must go and investigate,"

"Oh hell no!" Dean shouted, tugging at the arm of the trench coat. "You're not popping away and leaving me looking like an idiot again,"

With a quick pop and a long, agonising journey that Dean assumed must've been flying, they arrived in a small police room. There was a table set up with four chairs, and a small tape recorder. On the table was sat a handsome man, whose head was in his hands, two cops in matching uniform, and a blonde woman. Lawyer – Dean assumed.

"Cas," he hissed, hoping they wouldn't hear him. "I don't think that we should be breaking in to interrogation rooms,"

"Relax, they can't see us," Castiel said. "That man is called Alexander Cordon. He left the bar "Rufus' last night, just as you said, with Cassandra, and in the morning he woke up covered with her blood. He doesn't remember anything,"

"That's none of our business, leave it to the cops," he urged Castiel. Dean was a Man of Letters in training, it was not his place to interfere with police investigations.

"Dean," Castiel said. "The thing that killed that girl, is the thing that killed your mother,"


	4. Chapter 4

From what Dean understood of angels, they did not think very highly of anything other than each other and God. They had seen the birth of the world, so what was left to be fascinated by when you had seen everything? Dean had thought the answer to be nothing, but that was before he had dragged Castiel to the research library in the academy.

"So you people read all of these?" he asked, tracing his vessel's fingers across the spines of each book. He took the time removing a thick, leather bound journal and flicking the crisp pages, listening for the sound that it made. Dean nodded, threw down some of the books he thought would be useful and took a seat.

"Well, most of us don't read all of them," he admitted. "But I'm pretty sure Ash has been through the majority of that shelf," Castiel stared at Dean with his head cocked sideways. Luckily the library was pretty empty, aside from the scared looking third years who were cramming for their exam the following day, and the librarians who stared at Dean like he were a parasite. Of course, it wasn't often that Dean entered the research library, and from what he could recall his previous few visits had ended in an unceremonious exit.

Dean motioned for Cas to sit down, and he did, gently placing himself beside the human. He then followed Dean's suit, and removed a book from the pile, before opening it and scanning the pages. As Dean read, searching for any mention of their demon, he soon realised that Castiel had finished the entire book, and was onto his second.

"Wow there," he said. "You can read that quickly?" to which Castiel stared at Dean portraying a look that read 'humans are dumb'.

"Yes Dean," he answered. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Dean laughed. "That's great. It means I can just sit back and relax, whilst you read,"

"I hardly think…" Castiel started, but Dean interrupted with a grin.

"Hey… you wanted to apologise didn't you?"

This is how they spent the next twenty minutes reading eight books the size of Dean's fist, and; unfortunately, finding nothing. From what they had overheard in the interrogation room, they were after a middle aged man with yellow eyes. The police had laughed at the man for suggesting such a thing as demons, but Dean had known. This was more than just about his mom – the asshole was back and killing more people, which meant that Dean had to stop it.

When they (or more specifically, Castiel) had finished, Dean threw his hands in the air, dropping them to cradle his head.

"Nothing?"

"There were many 'things'" Castiel used air quotations around the word, "but nothing relevant to our search,"

"Good, I'm hungry," Dean grabbed the angel's arm before he could teleport away, because over the past day, Dean had realised that it was a very bad habit he had. He would show up seconds later with a drink, or a sandwich, or even a new book. But right now, all Dean wanted, was to sit in the booth of a greasy diner and sink his teeth into a juicy burger. "Not now, Jumper. We're driving,"

"Driving?" Castiel seemed anxious. Dean dragged him along, out of the library doors, out of the academy and towards the car park, where he spotted the girl of his dreams, sat in waiting. His 1967 Chevy Impala, parked up, pristinely clean, and shining with delight. "Dean, I am not sure that…"

"Shut up and get in," he ordered, before swinging himself into the vehicle and revving the engine. "Listen to her purr,"

"The car isn't a feline, Dean," Cas pointed out, but rather than becoming irked by the angel's stiff behaviour, Dean laughed out loud. "Why are you laughing?"

"For someone who can read an entire library in half an hour, you should really learn what a metaphor is," Dean pointed out as he swerved the car out of the car park. He was headed towards the Road House; they did the best burgers, and if Castiel thought he knew heaven, Dean was about to prove him wrong.

The rest of the drive was in a stiff silence that threatened to break every time Castiel stared at Dean's concentrating face. Dean would shoot him an angry look, and quickly return his eyes to the road, before Castiel would start his staring again. By the fifth time this had happened, Dean was starting to become irksome.

"Dude," he finally snapped. "What is your problem?"

"I do not have any problems, Dean," Castiel answered in his confused voice. When Dean stole a look of the angel, his head was crooked, staring back at the oldest Winchester boy from an almost 90 degree angle. "I do not know what you are referring to,"

"Stop staring at me. It's putting me off driving,"

"Would you rather I did it when you weren't aware?" Castiel quizzed.

"Yes… wait, no! Just don't stare at me, okay? At least _try_ and act human," he pleaded. Castiel nodded.

"I am an angel of the lord, I am sure I can pass as homo sapien," to which Dean tried not to laugh.

Pulling into the dingy car park, and avoiding a large pot hole (that Dean had certainly not created with the use of two fireworks, a crate of beer, and a small child's doll) he killed the engine and clicked his seatbelt off. When he turned to look at Castiel, the angel had already disappeared, deciding that doors were below him, and he was waiting outside Dean's door staring in at him.

Dean got out of the Impala, locking her, and pushed Castiel towards the bar door. The bar wasn't anything special in terms of aesthetics – a brown hut with a broken sign that read "The Road Ho se" and a half-dead plant at the door – but it was renowned for being a hanging place for hunters. Strictly speaking, Dean wasn't really allowed to go to the Road House, as his father (and many of his classmates) didn't think that a Man of Letter's should mingle with hunters, but Dean loved the burgers.

He squeezed his way into a small booth, whilst Castiel did the same on the opposite side. Dean wondered if an angel had ever come into the bar, and the thought made him chuckle, as Ellen Harville (mother of Jo) walked towards them with a grin.

"Winchester," she greeted happily. Ellen could be a scary woman if she wanted to, but she was also something of a hero to Dean. "Here on work or…" she spotted Castiel, who sat stiffly sniffing at the table top, "pleasure?"

"Work," the Winchester replied quickly. "Just taking a break from some research,"

"The usual?" she winked. Dean nodded.

"Make that two,"

"I'll be right back with your drinks," she informed him.

Dean looked at Castiel, who was tugging at the sleeves of his trench coat.

"Nice job passing for human, moron," he chuckled. "So, do angels eat, or do you just feed off of your massive egos?"

"It is not necessary for us to convert food matter into energy, but some angels have been known to ingest what passes for nutrition to you humans," Castiel said.

"Is that angel talk for no?" Dean laughed, but Castiel's face was continuously deadpan.

"No. If I was to say that in enochian I would say…" but Dean didn't hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly, Castiel had opened his mouth and Dean heard a high pitched scream, which sounded more like his ear drums exploding than anything else. Around him, the glasses were shaking on the tables, and plates threatened to fall to the ground as their owners clasped their hands over their ears.

Within one second the sound was gone.

"What the hell was that?" Dean demanded once he'd finally gotten the sense back to his brain. His ears were ringing, and he was getting the biggest headache he'd had in a while. All across the room, angry hunters were removing guns from their waist belts, glaring around the room at the other diners. Some were shouting at one another, curious as to what had just happened. Ellen was staring over at Dean's booth with angry amusement.

"That was enochian," explained Castiel. "I'm surprised you couldn't understand it,"

"Why are you surprised? That was just screaming,"

"Some humans can understand," Castiel explained. "You are not one of them,"

"Obviously," Dean sighed.

Ellen sauntered over with their drinks, quickly followed by Jo with their burgers. Jo often helped her mum out waitressing at the bar, in order to earn money. She placed the two plates in front of both Castiel and Dean, and shot Dean and inquisitive look, before strutting away.

"Dean, she wants to know if I'm the Juliette," Castiel said quietly. Dean choked on the mouthful of soda, and swallowed before asking.

"What?"

"That girl was wondering if I am the Juliette. My vessels name is Jimmy, not Juliette,"

"Erm… she was making a joke," Dean stuttered, wondering how he could explain to the angel about his conversation with Jo. "She's a friend, Castiel. Just shut up about it,"

"I don't understand human jokes," he sounded almost forlorn.

"Obviously. Now eat your burger,"

Five orders later, and Castiel had come to the conclusion that he really liked burgers. He wasn't much of a fries kinda guy, so Dean helped himself to the potato snacks and half a bottle of ketchup. When Castiel's appetite had finally been met, Dean paid, rolled his eyes at Jo, and led the angel into the parking lot.

"We'll keep researching tomorrow, yeah?" Dean asked as he unlocked the door to his car.

"That will be necessary, I think," Castiel nodded. "Until then?"

"Well, I need to sleep. I have lessons tomorrow," Dean explained. "So I guess…" but Castiel was already gone before Dean could say goodbye.

By the time Dean arrived home, Sam was already in bed, and John was waiting up with a heavy leather bound book in his hands. Dean entered the house – a five bedroomed building, with its own study and gymnasium – dropping his keys on the table in the hallway. John Winchester called out his son's name, and Dean followed the sound into the main living area. His father wore a stern expression.

"Where've you been?" he asked.

"I was researching some lore, and then we went for burgers," Dean said. When it came to John Winchester, he could tell a lie from a mile off, so Dean generally stuck to half-truths.

"We?" John asked.

"A friend,"

"Which friend?"

"Jo," Dean said. It wasn't a total lie. Jo had been there. But he didn't want his father knowing that he was researching into his mother's death. John had never been the same since Mary had died. He rarely even spoke about his wife, never mind the cause of her death. But Dean had never gotten over it. Of course, he didn't sit up all night crying into his pillow – he'd been four when she'd died – hardly a long enough time to know what having a mother was like. But he knew what not having her was like. He knew that it broke his father to see Dean sometimes, because he was the spitting image of her; he knew that he's never have dirt wiped from his face with a hanky and some spit; he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he and Sammy were always going to be missing something.

So when Castiel had told Dean that the thing that had killed her was back, he couldn't help but see hope. He wasn't under the illusion that he could bring her back, but if he could stop it killing anyone else – if he could stop just one more family from being destroyed – then he would.

Dean turned to leave the room and head up to his bed, but his father coughed.

"There was a death last night," John informed Dean. He nodded, unaware if he was meant to already know the information or not. Either way, John didn't seem surprised. "Don't stay out too late again, Dean,"

"Yes sir,"


	5. Chapter 5

Dean sat with his head stuffed in the third chapter of some book on demonology, kicking the leg of the table and not taking in any words. Not that he had given Castiel and exact time to show up, but the angel was late. It wouldn't have annoyed Dean quite as much as it did, if he wasn't getting weird looks from the library regulars. More than once he'd looked up and seen some weird kid shooting him looks of disbelief.

Half way through the next chapter, Dean was starting to suspect that there was nothing useful within the book, and started skim reading, waiting for the angel to pop up at any moment. How did one contact an angel? He could hardly imagine Castiel texting, and he wasn't sure if heaven's number was in the phonebook. The only way he could think of getting a message through would be praying, and the very thought of that made Dean laugh out loud. That earned him another glare.

"Dean?" a female's voice called from behind him. He turned in his seat to see Jo standing in her black trousers, and white blouse, carrying an armful of books to his desk. "Oh my God, Dean Winchester. You do know this is a library, right?" she took the seat opposite him and spread her books out.

"Yes, thanks Jo," he grinned. "I've err… got a project,"

"A project?" she didn't sound convinced.

"You know, I'm just searching for a cool present for Sammy's birthday," he lied quickly.

"In 'Demons, Devils, and Deals at the Cross Roads'? You going to get the kid a hell hound?" Jo laughed quietly, but turned back to her own book with note paper and pen in hand.

The pair started to study in silence, with Jo occasionally scratching notes into her book and Dean occasionally turning towards to door to see if his study-buddy had decided to show up yet. After ten minutes he was even starting to annoy himself. Jo, however, was patient. She would throw him questioning looks that he was paying attention to, and she would tut and giggle every time Dean pulled an expression of anger and returned a second later to hopefulness.

"Okay, Dean. Sweetie," Dean looked at her, tearing his eyes from the door. "Who're you looking for?"

"No one," he said, dropping his eyes to his book. "I just don't like libraries,"

"I guess not," Jo was silent for a second. "Shall I even ask about yesterday?"

"What?" he said nonchalantly, attempting to feign innocence.

"Yesterday at the Roadhouse. You and the guy that looks like he fell off the catwalk and right into an ugly trench coat?" Dean shrugged.

"It was nothing. Remember the angel I was telling you about?" she nodded.

"I thought it was him," she admitted with a grin. "He's cute,"

"He's an angel. I don't think they're much into dating," Dean rolled his eyes. "Especially not twenty year old girls,"

"Oh Dean," her face burst into pure joy. "_I_ wasn't planning on hitting on him,"

"You'd have a hard job of it. Dude doesn't understand the idea of being on time," Dean grumbled, making Jo light up even more. "What're you smiling about?"

"Nothing. But I'm pretty sure Ellie Rennick is going to ask you out,"

Dean shrugged. Ellie was a pretty girl, with dark hair, and a nice smile. She volunteered for the Academy events team, she had great marks in all of her exams, and she even appreciated his Impala. But Dean got a weird feeling in his stomach. He put it down to the awkward kiss he and Jo had shared six months previously, and how any mention of either of their romantic lives felt awkward between them. Jo was like a sister to him, no matter how much eggnog Sam felt necessary to force on him.

As it was, Ellie Rennick had been the girl glaring at him across the room all afternoon. Dean had thought she was more angry about him taking up an entire table to himself without actually reading very much, rather than trying to be seductive, but Jo had always been better at noticing when girls were advancing on him. Dean waved at her, trying to be polite, but before he knew it she was on her way over to them.

"Hiya Dean," she whispered, dropping her notepaper quietly to the table. Jo winked at Dean, who wanted to signal 'help' but couldn't think of a way to do so politely. "Jo,"

"Hey Ellie," Jo smiled. "What brings you to this side of the table?"

"I couldn't concentrate," she looked at Dean and her face flushed pink before dropping her eyes. "Did you hear about Cassie?"

"It's so sad," Jo answered. "Did they catch the guy?"

"I'm not sure," Ellie admitted sadly. "I hope they do. She was so beautiful,"

Dean agreed. Cassie was beautiful, but she was also brilliant and charming. In physical training, she was the first one to throw a punch at Dean when he got too cocky (which was fairly often), she was always ready to laugh at a joke, and the way she cared for her little sister reminded Dean so much of his and Sammy's relationship, that he couldn't help but admire her. She wasn't the kind of person to get caught up in her studies, but she also wasn't the kind of girl to leave with a random guy – especially with school the next day.

Deciding to put aside his anger at tardy angels, Dean shoved his nose back in the books, ignoring the well thought out attempts at creating conversation that Ellie had concocted. He didn't want to be rude, but he also felt a fresh urge to find this son of a bitch and put him down for good.

"He's studying really hard," Ellie looked worried as she looked at Jo. Jo shrugged.

"He's got a project apparently," to which both girls smiled and turned to their own notebooks.

After an hour and a half of reading through reference book after reference book, Dean was starting to become more and more agitated that Castiel hadn't shown up. If they wanted to kill the demon, then the angel was going to have to put in the hours, and they could get it done a lot quicker if he decided to show up. As it was, Jo and Ellie were packing up their books, and invited him out to get dinner. Dean rejected their offer, saying that he'd promised Sam that they would have a death match on the video console that Dean had given him for his last birthday.

They all walked down to the car park together, but as Jo and Ellie headed for Jo's bike (a thunderous beast with a might roar), Dean crossed the lot and unlocked the impala. He flung his bag (filled carelessly with as many demon-hunting books that it would hold) into the back seat, and swung himself into the driver's seat. Flicking on an old Metallica tape, Dean thought back to the evening before, and how it had ended up with him escorting an angel to the Roadhouse. The Roadhouse of all places! It was hardly a building designed for divine entities.

As he pulled into his spot on the Winchester drive-way, Dean grabbed his backpack and headed indoors. Sam greeted him the second he was through the door, with a cold beer and a packet of his favourite potato chips.

"There's pizza in my room, and more beer if you beat me," he grinned, running up the stairs before Dean had a chance to thank him. Just as he was about to deposit his bag on the hallway floor, John walked out of the kitchen and stared at him. His father had aged at about twice the normal rate since the death of his wife.

"You're late. Sam's been waiting for half an hour," John said, matter of factly. Dean dropped his head.

"Sorry – I was studying with Jo," Dean said, realising that Jo had been his alibi for the evening before too. He wasn't the only one to notice this, as the oldest Winchester raised an eyebrow and looked at his son.

"She's a good kid," and Dean suddenly felt as though he was receiving a blessing. It wasn't something that John gave out often – positive thoughts – and Dean felt like stumbling out a shit sorry excuse that he and Jo weren't together. But he just nodded, letting his father believe what he needed him to believe.

Jo called him just before midnight, and only forty minutes following the ass-kicking he'd bestowed upon his brother. Dean was in his room, flicking through crisp yellowing pages that informed him all about demons called Lilith, and Larson, and Luxem. He answered the phone on the first ring, anxious not to wake anyone.

"Hello?" he answered in a rasping whisper.

"Hey Dean," Jo's voice came through with its friendly tone.

"Hey Dean!" he heard Ash shout in the background. They must be chilling out at the Roadhouse after Jo's shift. Ash often hung around the old bar, and Dean felt like it had something to do with the pretty blonde on the other line.

"What's up?"

"Nothing," Jo whistled. "I was just wondering if your angel ever showed up,"

"He's not my angel," Dean snapped. "And no, he didn't," Truthfully Dean had been waiting up as long as he had, ready to shout at the celestial bag of crap if he ever decided to show.

"Well, I got a guy here who says he's seen the face of an angel," Jo informed him.

"Jo – you work in a bar filled with drunks and hunters. They say a lot of things," Dean pointed out. He was right; some of the stories Jo came into the academy with were hilarious.

"Yeah, but you should see this guy Dean. His eyes are all funny-"

"It's called alcohol poisoning,"

"-and he walked in with the shivers-"

"Nothing a good hospital trip wouldn't cure,"

"And he was covered in weird runes…" that last one got Dean. "Carved into his skin… if I didn't already mention that,"

"You could have _led_ with that, Jo,"

"Whatever, you wanna come ask if he's seen Romeo?"

"I thought he was Juli… oh, never mind, I'll be there in twenty minutes,"

Dean hung up, grabbed his jacket, and shimmied his window open with practiced silence. It wasn't that Dean wasn't allowed out at night, more of an overwhelming sense that John Winchester felt, of paranoia. Dean didn't blame him – once you know what's out in the dark, it's scarier than not knowing. He couldn't imagine having kids of his own, and forcing them to live in a world where the monster under their bed is real.

He slid down the draining pipe, and landed on the empty flower bed with a soft thud. The drive only took fifteen minutes, due to the lack of traffic on the roads, and the second Dean pulled into the Roadhouse parking lot, Jo was waiting with a happy grin. She probably thought he was here to find out about Castiel, but the only reason Dean wanted to find Castiel was so that the idiot would help him track down the monster. If he had another eye witness, then Dean didn't need the angel.

"Good evening?"

"The best," Dean smiled and followed Jo into the bar. The stools and chairs were all stacked on their tables, and it was as empty as Dean had seen it in a long time. But there was on figure, lying in a booth, with legs spilling out of the end. "That my guy?"

"Yeah. Ash and I can't get any sense out of him, and mum told us to kick him out," the girl laughed.

"Right,"

"Beer?"

"No thanks," he'd already had one that night, and didn't need to be caught driving over the limit. His dad would freak out.

Heading towards the legs, Dean wondered what he was going to ask. Where've you been? What face did you see? But it wasn't until he reached the pot-bellied man that Dean realised he couldn't be too forthright with his friends in the room. Jo was already suspicious.

"Can you guys…?" he asked, and without a word, Jo and Ash nodded, and left through the bar curtain. "Hey," there was no reply.

Dean poked the leg of the man, before kicking his foot and startling him awake. He expected him to be pissed – he didn't expect him to scream. The man was on his back, scuffling into the corner of the booth, as far away from Dean as physically possible.

"Hey, it's okay – I ain't gonna hurt you?" Dean assured him, not sure why his being there had startled the man so much.

The guy smelt like booze, and so that explained his drunken state, but not the response he'd just had. Dean called out, "Jo – how many drinks did you give the guy?"

"None," she shouted through the curtain. "He was like that before he got here,"

"Right…" Dean pondered. "You haven't been down to Rufus' have you?" the guy was still quivering, but managed to nod his head in the affirmative. "and this "face of heaven" you saw?" he quoted Jo.

"He saved me," the man cried out at once. "from… from… you,"

"Me?" Dean quizzed, his eyebrow raised.

"You did this to me," the man pointed at the marks on his arms and face. Some were still bleeding, but not deep enough to warrant a worry. "and then he came and he called out your name, banished me here, and you've found me again!"

"What name did he call?" Dean asked.

"Dean,"

"Oh," standing, Dean started to pace. Any number of things could have taken his appearance, but the most likely would be a shifter or a witch. "Well, sorry for the whole thing, but that wasn't me attacking you,"

"Was it not?" the man asked, his eyes wide?

"No. I don't know what it was, but it sure as hell ain't me," Dean turned to leave, before remembering one thing. "What did the face of heaven look like?"

"Like divine wrath,"


	6. Chapter 6

_Guys! I gone and done did a chapter! _

_The writing process for these kinds of things really amuse me, because of the weird crap you end up typing into your search engine. Anyway, just a word to say that reviews are like demon-blood, and I love you all and hope you enjoy where this is going!_

After hanging around outside a closed bar for an hour and a half and checking half of the sewage holes, Dean had decided that his work might best be done during the day. He headed home, careful to turn the impala's light off, before pulling into the driveway, and climbing back to his window. By the time he woke up, he'd had three hours of very uncooperative sleep, and he was still no closer to finding the demon that had killed his mother and his friend.

But Saturdays meant that he could do what he pleased, without having to skip school. Bobby might start getting suspicious and tell his father about his awful attendance if he stopped showing up all together.

He grabbed breakfast (pop tarts and a strong cup of coffee) and was almost ready to swing out the door before Sam tumbled downstairs looking at him like he was the ghost of Christmas past.

"You're up?"

"Yes Sam. That is what human beings do during the day," Dean replied with heavy irony.

"Exactly! What're you doing up?" Sam demanded without a shred of laughter on his face. "Are you going to see Jo?"

"No,"

"Dean, it's okay if you-"

"Sammy, no," Dean warned.

"Whatever, bitch,"

"Bye, Jerk,"

Dean entered Rufus' armed with a silver knife tucked into his waist belt, and sleeve, and a smaller one hidden in his left sock for good measure. The owner of the establishment, Rufus Turner was an old black man with a moustache to rival Tom Selleck, and the disposition of hurricane. He was stood across the bar, with his arms gesticulating wildly towards a shrinking bar maid. Dean headed towards the bar, and even in the dimly lit room, he could make out tears on the girl's face

"Oi, Rufus, stop bullying the staff and get me a scotch," he yelled across the bar. His sudden interruption shook Rufus from his momentum of anger, and gave the girl a chance to escape out back.

"Bit early for scotch, ain't it boy?"

"It's night time somewhere in the world," Dean quipped as he removed a few dollars from his wallet.

"ID?" Rufus had his hand held out expectantly.

"Rufus! You know my dad," Dean rolled his eyes, but passed over his first legal from of identification. Finding everything to be in order, the old man handed over the scotch with a grimace and started to clean the bar.

The rest of the bar was empty, save for two girls in the corner drinking what looked like soda, and giggling as they stared at Dean. Blinds on all of the windows ensured almost total darkness, and as he poured the burning liquid down his throat, Dean realised how easy it would be to get caught up in drinking in the early hours of the morning, and ordered himself a coke.

"You hear about the girl?" he asked of the bar tender finally. The waitress had just returned to the room, shakily staring at Rufus as she placed cardboard coasters on each of the tables after wiping them down.

"Of course I heard," Rufus grumbled. "Cops were down here asking all sorts,"

"Do they know who did it?" Rufus shrugged. "Do they know that it might be more than just a person?"

"It's all the same to the cops. Either way they'd never catch the son' bitch," Dean nodded. If another kid; especially one from the academy, went missing, then the Men of Letters would send out one of their pet hunters to do the job, but until then it was just a silly girl who'd gone home with the wrong guy. Dean resented the thought that Cassie could be thought of like that.

"You know anything?" he pressed of the old man, but Rufus shook his head and grunted.

"If I knew something, I'd have told the cops," he snapped.

"But you must've seen something? Someone looking a bit suspicious, maybe?"

"Winchester – it was a student night. I spent most of that evening shouting at the staff to serve some punters, and keeping the under agers from touching any booze,"

"Right, sorry," Dean sipped his drink.

After about five minutes of sitting and waiting for the killer to return to the scene of two crimes, Dean was growing bored. Luckily, as he was about to get up and search the sewers, he felt a tapping on his shoulder. When he turned, he saw one of the girls from the corner, a pretty girl with hair like wheat fields in the harvest, and eyes staring at his lips. Dean smiled.

"Hi?"

"Hey," she purred. She hadn't been drinking anything alcoholic, but she was smiling with the confidence that he'd only known from whiskey. "Waiting for someone?"

"Kinda," he admitted, before lazily dragging his eyes up and down her. She wore a white summer dress and brown strapped sandals. The fringe of the skirt trailed just high enough up her leg that Dean's eyes lingered, before meeting hers. Her eyes were blue. "But he might be a while,"

"He?" a sudden flash of worry, before Dean realised what he'd said and laughed, flashing his teeth like a predator.

"Not like that," he assured her. "An old friend I need to have words with. Why don't you and your friend join me?" he motioned to the dark haired girl in the corner, who looked more interested in tracing the rim of her glass than joining her friend in a casual flirt, but walked over none the less. "Dean Winchester,"

"Maddie," the blonde grinned. "And this is Sthen,"

"Sthen – nice name," but the girl didn't seem to care. She shot her friend a look of utter disbelief, before sipping from her glass. Most of the ice had melted into the soda, but she didn't seem to mind. Dean noticed with a slight confusion that both girls wore the same outfit.

"So this friend you're waiting for?" Maddie started. "Has he done something terribly wrong?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean winked, making Maddie's cheeks blush pink. "What're you ladies doing in a place like this on such a lovely day?"

"Waiting for our friend Riley," it was Sthen that spoke. She had a soft voice, but it sent chills through the dark room, and sounded strong and forceful. Dean shook his head, trying to deter the image that it was not a human voice.

Rufus and the waitress were gone now, he tried to call out for another soda but there was no reply.

"So what has your friend done wrong, Dean?" purred Maddie, raising her hand and running a long nail down his cheek. He was starting to get the impression that the casual flirt might've gone a bit too far. "Did he find Cassie?"

"Did he cut out her heart whilst she watched with crying eyes?" Sthen added, with wide eyes and a nodding head.

"You're…"

"Gorgons," Maddie nodded. "Yeah, I guess we are,"

"Stheno and Medusa at your service," in unison both girls flicked their tongues out and ran them across their lips.

"You killed Cassie? You cut out her heart?" Dean stuttered. He was trying to bide time in order to reach for one of his knives, but the opportunity never arose.

"That's not really our style," Maddie… Medusa said. "We prefer the whole 'turn to stone' thing personally,"

"Azazel prefers the more ritualistic methods," Stheno informed Dean. "He loves the whole torture game,"

"Ripping, cutting, tearing – flesh is like paper to him,"

"Even flesh of stone,"

"Well that's great. I'm sure if you tell him how you feel you three will be very happy together," Dean tried to joke, but his voice wasn't strong enough. Adrenaline was pumping, but it beat loud in his head like a pulsating rhythm. He brought his leg up to arms reach and slowly pulled the knife from his sock. It wasn't a huge knife, but it might slow one of them down. Just as Sthenos was pacing the floor, staring at Dean like he was lunch, he pounced at the blonde, knife lashing forwards the way he had learnt in the academy.

The momentum carried the knife forwards, until it met the flesh beneath the white dress (which he now supposed must be a toga, or whatever gorgons wore?) with a clank of metal on stone, and bent beneath his hand. He dropped it to the floor. It was useless to him.

"Fuck," he groaned audibly, before kicking out at the closest girl, and rolling to his left. He could hear the sounds of the laughing gorgons, but he was tucked safely in behind the wood of the bar. Rufus and the barmaid were nowhere to be seen, which he supposed, was a blessing.

"Dean," chanted Stheno, who Dean suspected must be the oldest of the two. "We're not going to hurt you,"

"Like we said," added Medusa. "Azazel likes to play with his food,"

Dean cursed, silently now, and looked around him for a weapon. There was a lot of booze, obviously, but the best he could do with that would be to start a fire, and he was no scientist, but he wasn't sure about how women made of stone would fare against a bar fire. Plus, he would not survive that. Instead, he thought back to his training – what did he know about his enemy?

Granted, Medusa was the only Gorgon he'd actually heard of, but the story was all the same. She had sisters, and this – he assumed – must be her. It was the reflection that turned her to stone, or something like that. Dean felt a sudden renewed sense of excitement, before realising that the mirror on the back of the bar hadn't seemed to do any damage as of yet. He heard a sudden hiss and realised that maybe the snake hair wasn't just a part of the legend after all.

"If we turn you to rock first, it won't hurt as much, I promise," Medusa hissed. "I always did like a pretty boy,"

"And you'll never die," Stheno said. Suddenly the idea of being alive as stone forever, watching his heart be ripped out of his chest didn't feel so appealing. Dean readied another of the silver knives and stood, careful not to turn to see the eyes of the gorgon. In the reflection of the mirror, he saw two grotesque faces, that looked like cracking concrete snarling as they moved towards him. Dean rolled over the top of the bar, knocking over a glass with his foot, and kept his eye trained on the mirror.

Medusa was closest to him, and as such, reached him first. He swung the knife, small as it may be, and brought it around across the throat. Unlike before, the knife didn't collide with the stone, but sliced through it with ease. He assumed that the throat must be a weak spot.

The gorgon's head fell with a thud, and rolled towards her sister, before coming to a stop by Stheno's feet. Dean braced himself for a quick attack, but was met with a deep roar and cry. He thought of Sammy, and how he'd feel if someone beheaded him right under Dean's nose, and suddenly couldn't help but feel guilty.

There was a crash somewhere the mirror couldn't see, and Dean suddenly felt blind, as a wave of anguish rolled over him. There was a new voice to the mix now. Riley.

"My sister," the newcomer cried. "What has the child done?"

"He has killed our Medusa," wailed Stheno. "Killed her with a blade of silver,"

"Then we shall kill him, sister," Riley said. Her voice was sweeter than Stheno's, which made Dean even more scared. Nothing creepier than a cute girl.

"But the demon needs him,"

"The demon's plans can go ahead without the hunter," growled the voice. Dean fought every instinct he had not to turn to look at them. He couldn't move from the mirror without placing himself in blind danger, so he stood – waiting for them to come closer to him.

There was a crash as intent driven rock hurled itself at Dean. Taken more than slightly aback by this turn of events, Dean forced his eyes closed, and used the silver knife to lash out at the mass of angry monster that scratched at his face. The claws felt like metal, and his felt something like hair slithering across his skin and nipping into his flesh. The monster's hands were around his throat within a moment, but he kicked her off, and dove backwards until his back was against the wall. He stumbled into table, but found the wall, and held like knife in front of him, like a shield.

A cackle of laughter followed by another roar of sadness deafened Dean, so that he couldn't hear footsteps on the ground, or the sound of flitting tongues. Dean cracked his eyes open and stared directly at the floor through the smallest possible window of vision. He saw grey cracked feet hidden underneath a pair of leather sandals, stepping towards him. He lashed out with the knife, but with one swift movement of an arm, the gorgon banished the weapon from his hand. He had one left.

Before he could reach for the knife hidden up his sleeve, his skull smashed into the plaster of the wall. A thunder of pain screamed from his mouth, but the gorgon didn't subside. Instead, she kicked into his shin, the feel of bone on stone causing Dean to fall to the floor with a yelp. Dean pushed out, but couldn't see her, and was just about ready to make himself a booze-bomb the room filled with white light. With his eyes closed, Dean had no idea what was going on, but even behind his eyelids, he could tell that this was not an earthly illumination.

The screaming of the gorgon ended at once, and soon it was just Dean's own panting of pain as he felt blood trickle down his neck and face, that filled the room with sound. By the time the light had faded, Dean was already seeing blackness.


	7. Chapter 7

_So that episode, huh? Let's have some affectionate Destiel to cheer ourselves up, eh?_

Dean saw Sam throwing something in the air, and clapping with joy as the firework exploded in the air. Sam was younger – thirteen and a half years old, to be exact. They were celebrating their mother's life; Dean's idea. No one was around them in the clearing, to tell them that two underage boys shouldn't be playing with fire. Not even their father, who had locked himself in the study.

When he blinked, Dean saw Jo and Ash rough housing on the rec room floor. Jo was winning, with her hands pinning down the weedy boy's shoulders until he screamed for a parley. Dean was sat on one of the plush arm chairs, laughing and being threatened by the blonde that he was next. They were in their fourth year at the academy, and Ash had only just started to grow the mullet, and Jo still had a tiny reminder of the puppy fat on her face. It was cute.

"Dean," someone called to him, and he tried to turn. When he did, the rec room was empty, and Jo, Ash, and Sam were all gone. He tried to call out, but his head started throbbing, and he felt something warm trickling down the side of his face. "Dean," the voice said again.

Cracking his eyes open, Dean was startled back into being with the knowledge that the gorgons were there. He tried to pull the knife from his sleeve, but the movement didn't seem to coordinate his arm, and he hit himself in the head.

"Ouch," he groaned. Attempting to sit up, Dean bit back curse words and ignored the pain. "Rufus?"

"This is Castiel," the deep voice said again. Of course it was Castiel; he was only a day late. Instead of complaining about the utter tardiness that the angel had exhibited, Dean found the energy to grumble.

"Good timing," his eyes finally opened, and he could see the room, dimly lit as it had ever been. "The light…"

"Did it hurt you?" Castiel asked in his usual straight laced voice. He was leaning over into Dean's bubble, eyes intent on the cuts that seemed to be there. "Heavenly light can be damaging to fragile human eyes," which annoyed Dean more than ever, and he swatted the angel away.

"My fragile human sensibilities are fine, thanks," Dean snapped. He was in a lot of pain, and just wanted to go and grab a coffee (or something stronger) and reacquaint himself with his bed. "Let's get out of here,"

"Dean, you're very hurt," Castiel pointed out.

"I am aware of that thanks," but as he tried to haul himself to his feet, his head started spinning, and the room wouldn't stay still. "Fancy zapping us away from here?"

"The force of the flight would probably concuss you at this point," admitted the angel with a grim expression. He was wearing his regulation trench coat, and his hair was as messy as ever. Dean wanted to ask if they didn't have hair product in heaven, but couldn't muster the energy to do it. Instead, he just watched the wisps of black hair move uncharacteristically in the breeze. "Dean?"

"Yes Cas?"

"Stay conscious,"

Dean blinked and did the best he could at not passing out. Castiel looked down at the young human, considering him. Dean Winchester; Castiel knew, was not someone who had faith. He believed in angels, only because he could see them, and the possibility of God became less and less likely the more he saw of the world. In all considerations, Castiel shouldn't heal him with the power of heaven.

The angel held out a hand, two fingers pointing towards the boy's bleeding face. He didn't flinch, but his eyes were glazed over as he stared up at the angel. The wonky grin on his face told Castiel that concussion might already be present, and so he felt no guilt as he pressed two of his vessel's fingertips to Dean Winchester's temple and watched as his grace soothed the wounds. Within seconds Dean's eyes focused, and each of the bruises faded quicker than human vision could notice.

"Better?" he asked. Dean nodded, feeling as his head was instantly better. The only sign that Dean had been hurt at all was the dried blood that had dripped onto his shirt and crisped into the fabric. As he sat up, Dean stared around the room - finally able to take everything in. There were three lumps of cracked statue in the centre of the floor, which appeared to have been blown apart from the inside. The floor was scattered with shards of the gorgon's flesh.

"Much," he answered finally. Hauling himself up, Dean stood almost nose to nose with the angel. It was only then that he noticed the pair of azure eyes focused on his every movement. When the fuck did he start describing blue as "azure" he didn't know, but it made him feel uncomfortable. He took a step back, but the eyes followed him. "Shall we?"

When they reached the impala, Dean was surprised that Castiel hadn't vanished on him yet. It was only when the angel slipped into the passenger seat, with all of his attention aimed at Dean, did the Winchester stop what he was doing and stare right back.

"Where were you yesterday?" he demanded finally, not forgetting how pissed he had been the previous evening.

"Chasing your dopple ganger down a sewer system," his tone was impatient and his face looked angry. "I am not going to always appear at your will to be your study buddy, Dean,"

"Hey! You're the one that said- never mind," Dean started the car up. "What's going on, then?"

"Azazel is after something," Castiel said as though it would make any sense to Dean. He'd heard the gorgon's mentioning the name, but he didn't actually understand who the fuck Azazel was. As though reading his mind (which in itself was a scary thought for Dean) Castiel added, "He's a demon. Quite a powerful demon,"

"Fantastic," Dean growled sarcastically.

"There is nothing sublime about that news Dean. I am afraid people are in danger,"

"That was called sarcasm, Cas," Dean mumbled, but didn't push the matter. "Right, and what does he want?"

"I don't know," admitted Castiel guiltily.

"I thought you guys were meant to be all knowing warriors of God?" snapped Dean, wishing that the guy would give him a little more information than the fact that they were all fucked.

"Demons are deceiving creatures Dean, and they are not of my father's creation. There is no way that I could understand Azazel's motivations from a whim," and suddenly Dean fell silent. "The gorgons were acting as witches for him. Powerful ones as well,"

"And now they're gone, will Zazel give up?" Dean asked, fearing the answer.

"Azazel. And no," Castiel informed. Dean pulled onto the main road and swerved to miss an Audi going twenty miles per hour over the speed limit.

"And the dopple ganger?" Dean pushed.

"A decoy perhaps," mused the angel. "Possibly trying to frame you for the mutilation of civilians,"

"Well then we're just going to have to catch this son of a bitch quicker than I thought,"

Pulling into his drive way, Dean noticed that his father's car was still in its spot. The man loved classic cars, but had given his oldest son the impala, when it became inconvenient for him to use for long journeys. Now, he drove a pristine car that was young enough to be Baby's grandchild, and about as appealing as the thought of his brother in a dress.

Castiel was out of the car without the use of the door, and Dean joined him on the garden path.

"So what? You wanna come in for some pie?" Dean joked, tucking his keys into his jean pocket. Castiel shook his head, seemingly confused by the invitation. "Because I don't have any,"

"There are things that need to be done, Dean," he said. "An angel of the Lord has no time to break for pie,"

"Why are you still here?"

"I couldn't leave you to crash and die. A gorgon has minutes ago cracked your skull into a wall. As a human you are…"

"A vulnerable little butterfly, I get it," Dean snapped and turned to the door. When he turned back to the street, the angel was gone.

Flicking through old demon text books was a lot easier now that he had a name. In fact, Dean even employed the use of Google to search his target. Things on the internet were often very mixed and sometimes wrong, so it was best not to attain all of his information from it, but it had some uses. The mythology of Azazel came from Hebrew texts – there were some ideas that he was an angel, or even a god himself, but Dean ignored these. He didn't need to be fighting what were supposedly the "good guys". His head was already hurting.

"Dean," a gruff voice said, followed by a slight rapping at the wood of the door. Dean stuffed the tattered book under his pillow and straightened up.

"Sir?" his father walked in, wearing an old t-shirt, and some of what he called "house-pants". He edged through the door, and past the desk filled with old paper with doodles, and the occasional piece of work, the little figurines Sam had given him, and the purple lava lamp that had been his mother's. John Winchester stood at the foot of his son's bed, staring down the boy.

"There's blood on your shirt," he pointed out, without questioning. Dean stopped his face from blushing, and nodded as though it was nothing.

"Just a nose bleed,"

"Rufus said you were in the bar this morning," ah. The stop-drinking-before-lunch talk. How he'd missed this talk. "Drinking scotch,"

"Just a morning wake up, to celebrate the end of exams," Dean said, unsure as to why he was lying to his father. Would the older Winchester really be so taken aback by his son hunting the thing that killed his wife? The answer was obvious from the way that Dean's eyes dropped from his father's.

"You still have two papers left," reminded the man.

"Oh," Dean blinked once. "I should get on that, then,"

"Dean," the tone was warning. "You need to stop spending time with that angel,"

Fuck.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, feigning confusion. What angel? There was no angel. He didn't know what his father was talking about.

"Bobby told me about the fire, and the visit from the angel. And there have been rumours from the hunters that a boy of about your figure was seen in the Roadhouse-"

"I was visiting Jo!"

"With an odd man in a trench coat, who proceeded to almost blow the place up," Dean had nothing to reply. "Angels are bad news, Dean. Angels are warriors. They don't care about humans, and they will make you fight their battles, and they will leave you battered,"

_How do you know?_ Dean wanted to ask. _You've never fought a battle in your life. You didn't even fight for your family. You gave up. I won't give up _– but he said nothing, letting the silence melt the room to an uncomfortable emptiness, until the older man nodded at his son and left the room.

Dean removed the book from under his pillow, but the words weren't making sense anymore. He dropped the book onto his bed, and rushed down to the kitchen to grab himself a quick lunch and forget his father's words. Sam was sat at the kitchen table, scribbling down runes into a little notebook.

"What'cha doing there, Sam?" he asked as he swung the fridge open and gazed into its depths. They needed to go grocery shopping. The only things in the door were milk, an egg, and herb paste, with old Greek yoghurt (Sam's) and some blue cheese at the back of the fridge, behind the beers.

"Kevin's been teaching me some translations," he explained. "Kid's a freakin' genius," Kevin Tran was one of Sam's best friends, and of course they got along because they were both massive nerds.

"Anything interesting?" but Dean zoned out as his brother started to go into intricate details about the inner workings of ancient myth, and how it was formed and written. He nodded in all the right places, but continued to search through the nearly empty cupboards. Giving up on finding anything delicious, Dean lowered his standards and returned to the fridge.

"Sam?"

"Yes Dean?" his brother replied sweetly.

"Who baked pie?"

"No one baked pie, Dean,"

"But there's pie. There wasn't pie here before. Did someone buy pie?"

"No one's been shopping, Dean," Sam was staring at Dean as though he was losing his mind. The kid's wide brown eyes were like weapons on a puppy, and right now they were distinctly worried about their older brother. Dean shook his head.

"Weird," he said, removing the pie from the fridge. He tucked into the crust – buttery and sugary and not too thick to take the taste away from the filling. Apples as tender and sweet as if they had been picked from the Garden of Eden.


	8. Chapter 8

_**So I'm going to apologise profusely for this chapter, because I've really been trying to get it right, but it hasn't seemed to do much, but I promise my little angels! The next chapter will be GREAT. Thank you everyone for the reviews and favourites and follows. You are all angels of the lord. **_

Dean hadn't _explicitly_ promised his father that he would stop spending time with "the angel" but as each day passed and there was no word from Castiel, Dean was starting to think that maybe the universe had promised for him. He had checked the house out and there was no sign of any anti-angel sigils. Even if there had been some hidden in the places he hadn't thought to look, Dean would be accessible during the day. The angel had never had a problem with showing up in the middle of school before.

After a week of _definitely_ not looking over his shoulder every time he heard a rustle of a coat, or the creaking of the floorboards, Dean had given up looking.

After two weeks without a word or whisper, Dean was starting to think he'd made the entire thing up in his head. This theory would have stuck if Cassie still hadn't been stuck six feet under, and Rufus hadn't been demanding to know how his wall became so terribly dented with the force of what looked like a head. A Dean-sized head. Jo remembered the angel too, but she stopped the jokes a long time ago. He knew he wasn't a screw loose. He was just being ignored.

After three weeks, Dean became angrier at the total dismissal of everything that had happened. He'd thought that they would hunt the bastard together, but apparently angels didn't need humans for that kind of thing. There had been no disappearances or deaths since Cassie, and Dean became suspicious that maybe Heaven's mightiest nerd had caught the son of a bitch without his help.

After four weeks, Dean had given up hope, and hadn't eaten pie in a month.

The Academy was coming to a close for the two week summer holiday ("Demon's don't take vacations" Bobby would snap at the students when they complained about the short break) and with the sun in the sky, languidly warming him, Jo, Ash, Sam, Jess (whom he'd finally manned up and asked out), Dean was finally able to relax without thinking of any kind of heavenly or demonic intervention. Despite his loose t-shirt, sticky from the game of ultimate frizbee he'd crushed his brother in, everything felt much cleaner in the sunshine. His freckles were even starting to make a come-back.

Ash was explaining (in detail) the massive online server he was going to start up with the time away from class, and Jo was listening with only mild interest. They were lying against one of the biggest oak trees in the open courtyard of the Academy. Instead of the usual graffiti, there was the occasional devil's trap carved into the trunk, and Dean let his fingers trace them lightly.

"Dean?" a soft voice said. He turned his attention to the sky, and once his eyes had adjusted to the summer light, he saw a girl. She had a pillow of soft black curls, and a warm smile, with a freckle kissing the corner of her lips.

"Lisa," he stumbled to sit up. "How're you?" everyone was staring now, specifically Sam (who, since he had his arm wrapped around the beautiful and carefree Jessica Moore, believed himself to be an expert on romance) who was looking impressed. Lisa was gorgeous (admittedly), but there was something about the way she laughed like laughter was easy, and spoke like words were prayers, that had always drawn Dean's attention more than a simple pretty face.

"I'm good thanks. Can I sit?" everyone nodded, and voiced their agreement.

Lisa was wearing a white summer dress (which following the events of a certain beating he'd obtained about a month ago, unsettled Dean), but she looked fabulous nonetheless.

"What're you doing over here?" Ash asked without subtlety. He was obviously upset that people had stopped listening to him. Dean whacked him across the head, and turned to smile innocently at the girl. It was true that Lisa's presence was odd to say the least but she was staring at Dean with some kind of intent purpose, and Dean was suddenly reminded of a large pair of blue eyes. He shook himself out of the quick daze, and put on one of his perfectly formed half grins.

"I just came to talk to Dean," she admitted with a bite of her bottom lip and her eyes on the older Winchester. Dean blinked.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you," she giggled. "I was just wondering if you were going to the Letter's ball with anyone?"

"The ball?" shit. He wasn't planning on going at all. "Nope,"

"That's cool," Lisa said. Dean stared at her incredulously. Jo hit him in the chest, making a deep thud and waking him up.

"Oh, do you wanna… I guess, do you wanna go with me?" it was more of a question than a request, but he wasn't going to deny Lisa Braeden if she wanted him to ask her out. He didn't think the laws of nature allowed the denial Lisa Braeden. But the thing about celestial intent, was that it didn't give a rats ass about laws or nature.

When Dean rolled up to the Braeden household in the rumbling Impala, Tuxedo constraining his breathing, and Sam in the backseat complaining about being the baby brother, his mind was anywhere but with heaven. He knocked on the front door, and was allowed entry by a tall, unassuming man with a strong handshake and wide smile. There was none of the usual 'what are your intentions', just a quick introduction before Lisa came down the stairs. She wore a black, knee length dress, which swayed around her legs like wind through hair.

"You look lovely," Dean said with loss of breath, and he wasn't lying. Her hair was down to her shoulders, and she had soft pink lipstick on. She smiled.

"You scrub up quite well yourself, Winchester," she replied with a wink.

"Do you wanna get going?" she nodded, grabbed a tiny little handbag (or "clutch bag" as she explained to him when he'd asked her why it was so small) and kissed her family goodbye. They wished the pair a lovely evening, and reminded Lisa that she was to be back before midnight.

Back in the car and on the road, Sam was navigating towards Jess' house, before diving out, and skipping back a second later with a girl clad in a soft green gown and a beaming smile. Dean had never seen anyone look at his brother like that, and he'd never seen Sam look so happy. For half a second he felt less annoyed about having to play chauffer to his kid brother. That was, until Sam flicked him in the back of the head and insisted he drive on. Dean revved the engine, a pulled away before speeding down the cul-de-sac. Lisa didn't mind. She sat in the passenger seat, humming quietly along to the Kansas tape that was playing over the stereo.

The academy was packed when he parked the car, and led Lisa into the building. Everyone was dressed in extravagant clothing, moving around the dance floor like fluttering butterflies, arms entwined and the trains of dresses flowing around stepping feet. Sam had run off with Jessica, but Dean (ever the gentleman) took the black shawl from Lisa's shoulders and handed it into the cloak room clerk. He then took her hand, and shuffled past seventh years and first years, all conversing politely and delicately.

Dean had never thought that his life would be one of decadence and polite small talk in the centre of a large ballroom. His kinds of parties had uncarpeted floors rather than marble ones, and shabby jeans and an old ACDC shirt in place of the fitted tuxedo. But Lisa was beautiful, and so it was the life he accepted.

Three hours later, and the bowtie was starting to strangle him, but every time he'd tried to loosen or remove it, Lisa had shot him a warning look. They'd already enjoyed the four course sit down meal, and shared in a few dances, so Dean and Lisa were sat with some of her friends talking. Dean's attention was drawn to the dance floor where Jo was trying to teach Ash how to waltz without stepping on her feet, whilst Garth Fitzgerald stood across the room, staring on at her like she was a beacon of light. Dean was confronted with a feeling of anger in his gut. Garth wasn't a bad guy; he was just a bit of a numb-skull, and Dean wanted to tell him to back off.

"I'm thinking of majoring in potions," Lisa admitted. Dean wasn't listening, but Pamela was. She was good natured, but Dean got the impression that she didn't like her best friend being on a date with Dean Winchester.

"I suppose if you're ever stuck in the amazon with a witch doctor and a yeti that might come in useful," Pamela laughed. "I was going for Psychics,"

"Unfair advantage," Lisa pointed out. Her hand rubbed Dean's knee, but he was too busy working out how to keep Fitzgerald from hurting his friend, that he didn't notice. "What about you Dean?"

"He'll be going to defence," Pamela grunted. "Either that or Angry Glares 101,"

"Huh?" Dean turned back to the conversation, to see Lisa's wide eyes trying to read him.

"What's up?" she asked, and the worry was genuine.

"Nothing," Dean tried to lie, but Pamela took over.

"Dean's worried that Garth Fitzgerald is looking over at Jo Harville," she said pointedly. Bloody psychics.

"Is that true?" Lisa quizzed looking hurt. Dean shook his head.

"No… well, yeah – sort of. But it's not how it sounds," Dean stuttered. "She's like my sister," Lisa looked at Pamela, who shrugged nonchalantly.

"Okay," Lisa smiled and squeezed Dean's hand. He realised that it might have been the right time to kiss her, but before he could do anything of the sort, he heard something that sent a physical shiver up his spine.

"Dean," someone called. It was deep and it was beaconing. The voice he'd been waiting a month for; the voice that had haunted him in both dreams and nightmares, and made him stand upon hearing.

"Cas?" the name was out of his mouth before he could place the words to the speaker's face. He span on his heel, but no one was stood behind him. No angels, not even any humans. Lisa was looking up at him with worry wrinkling the knot between her eyebrows, and Pamela looked amused.

"You okay, Dean?" Pamela asked. "Who's Cas?" Dean blinked, belatedly acknowledging his date and her friend. He nodded.

"Did I say Cas? I meant ass…" Dean stuttered. "I just remembered that I left something really important in my car and I should go… get that…" he stood up, without shooting a look at Lisa, who gawked after him with hurt in her eyes. It probably wasn't the best way to leave her, and he hoped that Pamela hadn't heard anything inside his head, but he didn't think he was that good anyway. Her earlier announcement that Dean was planning on ways to kill Garth could've been very scientific deduction, and not mind reading powers.

The night air was pleasantly warm, but it was the silence that hit him like drum. His solid shoes made a sharp sound against the concrete, but the music, chatter, and laughter was drained from the sky. There were a row of street lights leading him down the path to the car park. He passed two people he didn't recognise training for the Olympic tonsil tennis team, but it wasn't them they were looking for.

"Cas?" he called out, his voice sounding desperate as it echoed against night. "Cas, you oversized pigeon, where the hell are you?"

"Hell is not I place I ever wish to go, Dean," Dean closed his eyes, scared to see the empty parking lot in front of him, and the proof that he was crazy. He turned, slowly, and something in his stomach awoke. "For an angel to go to a place like that, it'd have to be for the fate of the world,"

Castiel stood with his ruffled trench coat and a trademark wondering expression. Dean's eyes moved from his nearly pouting lips, to the wide eyes, confused as they attempted to read the human. He wanted to laugh, but instead he choked out a cough.

"You're here," Dean whispered. "I didn't imagine any of it…"

"I am here," Castiel agreed. His face was neutral one moment but full of uncertainty the next. He took a step forwards, with his expression returning to its norm. "But neither my true form nor vessel resembles a pigeon,"

"Did you catch him yet?" Dean asked quickly, needing to know if the thing that killed his mother was dead. He'd rather sink the knife into the bastard's heart, but death was death.

"Azazel has not been caught," Castiel wore the look of a soldier who had failed. Dean suddenly felt the need to reach out and squeeze his shoulder – there was still time – part of him wanted to assure the angel, but that's not what came out.

"Then what the heck have you been doing for four weeks, if not kicking some demon butt?" the impatient and hurt side of Dean Winchester demanded.

"I have been attending my duties, Dean," Castiel looked angry, but Dean didn't care anymore. The fire in his eyes didn't scare the human. "You may have forgotten, but I serve heaven,"

"Yeah? And I serve the Society of People with Good Manners, who politely tell their … people where they've been!" Dean spat. "You could've dropped in a holy note or something,"

"Saying what, Dean? 'No luck so far on catching the fallen angel that killed your parent, but I hope your living one changes his mind about heaven soon,'?"

"You know about that?" it was Dean's turn to fall quiet. His face was blushing with embarrassment, and something felt wrong about the fact that Castiel thought that his father wanted Dean to stay away from angels – from him.

"John Winchester lacks faith and understanding. Which explains an awful lot," Dean took in a deep breath, realising too late, that he was almost nose to nose with the angel. Despite the slight height difference, Dean felt the ferocity of the man in front of him, rippling off of his skin like angry energy. It made Dean feel as though the oxygen was choking him from the inside out, but as his own anger grew from the obvious insult that Castiel had just shot at him, Dean felt his own strength.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, scarcely loud enough for himself to hear, even in the silent parking lot.

"Only that your full potential is not met, and that it is your fate to achieve the best things, and that your father may find himself in the way of heaven's most powerful angel," Castiel's eyes were fixed on Dean's, but the boy found himself staring at the corner of his lips as he spoke, watching the flinches of anger that angels aren't mean to feel as they rolled off his mouth.

"You?" Dean asked quietly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean. Michael," He'd heard the name, but it didn't matter. Michael, Castiel, heck even the angel Gabriel – they were all the same. Heartless dicks; that's what his father had told him.

"Michael?" Dean's words were barely audible by this point, but his eyes had moved from the lips and straight to the curve of the jaw bone, and the soft skin where the throat met the earlobe. Castiel coughed, causing the Adam's apple to flinch, and Dean suddenly found himself staring at another dude's ear like it was the most majestic thing in the entire universe. He stepped back, and the oxygen thinned.

"It is not of import right now," Castiel said. "I know where Azazel is,"

"Wait, you've known this whole time and you're listening to me shout at you about manners? Where is he?" Dean was in full action mode, jumping on his heel in order to prepare himself for the fight. Castiel was as motionless as he could be, with only the slightest breeze moving the trench coat.

"He's in hell, Dean," Cas' voice was as blunt as it could be, and Dean fell still. "But I have found his right hand man… or woman,"

"And she can lead us to him?"

"Or she could lead him to us," and Dean nodded, because Castiel wasn't going to hunt down the son of a bitch on his own. They were an "us" – a team. Maybe they could even be hunters.

_**Reviews get this thing written so much quicker 3 THANK YOU FOR READING. **_


	9. Chapter 9

Leaving the building smouldering hadn't been part of the whole plan, but other than getting his tuxedo covered in ash, blood, and demon spit, Dean was pleased with how the evening had span out. The cops had (obviously) noticed the explosion, and so it had been Castiel's job to transport them away with his magic angel juice – Impala included. They had found themselves sat a good twenty minute drive outside of the town, sat on the fence of an old farm house. Castiel liked dangling his legs, and Dean wanted to complain that it was annoying, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"One step closer to Azazel," he sighed finally. Some part of him wished he had a beer to two, but he'd have to drive back, and didn't want to be caught over limit – especially in his attire.

"Meg will be hard to find," Castiel affirmed Dean's worries. The demon they'd captured had been weaker than they'd expected, but she knew things. Apparently, if they wanted to get to "yellow eyes" they'd have to go through Meg. "I will continue researching,"

"Yeah. Me too," Dean smiled at the angel.

"Perhaps I could join you in the library. To be polite," Cas suggested, which made Dean nod, a supressed grin fixed to his face.

"That's if Jo doesn't get all… the ball!" Dean cursed and jumped up. He'd told Lisa that he'd only be a few minutes, and he'd left her in the middle of the Academy, dateless and probably very confused. Sam was also there, without a lift back. "Shit, I need to get back,"

"It's late, Dean," Castiel reminded him. They'd been working on the demon for a long time before she'd given up the information. Weak or not, neither Dean nor Castiel were trained torture artists.

Pulling out his phone, Dean spotted five missed calls and swore again, before punching in Sam's number.

"Dean!" he sounded more than annoyed. "Where the heck have you been?"

"I…" he didn't have a good lie. He looked to the angel (who was oddly light in the moonlight, and looked more human than he ever had before), but all Cas did was shrug. "I had to help a friend out,"

"Right, well thanks for telling everyone where you were going," the young Winchester sassed. Dean could almost see the bitch face. "Lisa got a lift back with a friend, and Jess and I had to get dad to drive out. She's staying the guest room tonight,"

"Shit, Sammy – I'm sorry," Dean said. "Really, that was a dick move. I should've been there,"

"I know," Sam paused. "She kissed me goodnight though. Before she went to sleep, she kissed me goodnight,"

"You've kissed her a hundred times before, doofus," Dean laughed at how dorky his brother was. But he felt happy for him.

"Yeah, but goodnight kisses are different," Sam explained. "They're perfect,"

"I'm happy for you, bro,"

"You could've got a goodnight kiss too, you know?" Dean felt the judging eyes on him, even though Sam was miles away. His brother had that effect on him. "Lisa liked you,"

"Yeah, liked," Dean snorted. He hadn't treated her brilliantly all evening, and ditching her in the middle of the school probably didn't help his chances. He was surprised (except, he wasn't really) that he didn't mind that he and Lisa wouldn't be together. "Look, Sammy I gotta go,"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed. "Make sure this friend of yours shows you what a real goodnight kiss is like,"

"No-" Dean tried to protest, but his brother had hung up. "Damnit,"

"Everyone is safe?" Castiel asked, even though Dean was pretty sure he'd heard the entire conversation. He was a celestial being, after all – his hearing was hardly confined to the human norm.

"Everyone's home," Dean said. "I'm not sure about how _safe_ I'll be when I show up looking like this,"

"You look like a warrior," Castiel pointed out, and suddenly Dean felt something in his stomach squirm.

"Dirty and underfed? Yeah," he tried to joke, but the laughter wasn't there, and he found his eyes stuck on the angel's. Cas stepped forwards, his hand held out. Without a word he pressed the palm against Dean's chest, and he suddenly felt scared. It wasn't the kind of fear that came with danger, but with being unsure.

Castiel's eyes hadn't moved from Dean the entire time, and his hand was still pressed to the human's chest, so firmly that he could feel the collarbones and the thrumming of a pulse beneath the tattered white shirt. Dean didn't so much feel the healing of his cuts and the cleaning of his clothes, as much as he understood Castiel's intentions. It wouldn't be good for either of them if Dean was to roll up into the Winchester house as battered as he was.

"Was it wrong of me?" Castiel finally asked. Dean shook his head, wanting to thank the angel, but his voice box was stuck. Cas seemed to see this as confusion. "To come here tonight?"

"No. Of course not,"

"I only bring it up, because you obviously have responsibilities, and your father does not agree with heaven, and…"

"And nothing," Dean said. "Because I have a responsibility to my mom, and to Cassie, and to my friends, and to this world,"

"You're very sure," Castiel spoke as though the words were totally foreign to him, which Dean supposed they were. Cas had shown him his true language, and it had almost deafened him, sure – but it had come easier to the guy than plain English. "You're very willing to sacrifice yourself for the safety of others,"

"It's not like that…" Dean tried to argue, but Castiel shushed him.

"I don't mean this as insult, Dean," he looked into his eyes, and blinked once. Dean felt his lips part involuntarily, either in surprise or something he didn't fully understand yet. "You are a much stronger warrior than I would have ever thought,"

"I'm not a warrior, Cas,"

"We're all warriors, Dean," his eyes dropped. "Perhaps I was wrong in supposing that all humans are weak,"

"So who is she?" Sam demanded the second Dean flung open his bedroom window. The floppy haired; six foot something boy was flicking through one of Dean's text books whilst lying on his bed. The kid was all hair and limbs and annoying questions, and Dean wished he'd thought to grab some beers on his drive back, if only to knock his brother around the head with. The Impala had been strangely silent without the constant babble of worry coming from the passenger seat, and Dean hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going.

"Who?"

"The friend," Dean rolled his eyes. What could he tell Sam? That he was off with another girl, thus ditching Lisa in the middle of a ball? Not exactly the reputation he wanted to build up. But what was the alternative – Sorry Sammy, I was off murdering a demon and blowing up a building with a kind of good looking angel, who just so happens to be wearing a guy's meat suit. Oh, didn't I mention that I'm hunting the guy who killed our mom and Cassie, and I haven't said a word about it to the cops?

"She's gorgeous," Dean said quickly. "She's got this messy black hair, eyes like fucking poison, and those lips… Sammy, I'd kill for less," suddenly he felt his face turning redder than he'd expected, realising that the lips in question had only been inches from him earlier that night.

"Figures," Sam rolls his eyes. "When you asked Lisa out… or when Lisa asked you to ask her out, I knew it wouldn't work out,"

"Why not?" Dean scoffed. Lisa was awesome, Dean was awesome. It was a perfect match. Except not really – they'd spent the whole night barely even talking, and he hadn't even thought about her before pulling away with an angel on board.

"Someone like Lisa walks in the room and you want to flatten your hair, and do your best impression of a man of letters. Someone like "your friend" doesn't walk into a room,"

"No kidding," Dean thought about how Cas had the tendency to pop up out of nowhere, and he was smiling at just how perceptive his kid brother could be.

"See, Lisa never made you smile like that," Sam pointed out, and Dean was blushing again.

"Okay, out," Dean ordered in his best big-brother voice. His hand was pointed to the door, before Sam shot him the bitchiest scowl he'd ever seen, and hopped off the bed with a thud of overgrown know-it-all.

"Fine, but I have one more thing to say," Sam's face had softened from the glare, and Dean stared blankly at him for a few moments. "You need to stop looking for whatever it is you're looking for,"

"What?"

"Your random disappearances, the books you leave under your pillow?" Dean swallowed, realising what his brother was getting at. "I know you're hunting, Dean,"

Shit.

"Hunting? Why would I be hunting?" he tried to scoff at the idea, but he just spluttered his words. When he tried to perch on the side of his desk, a precariously balanced tower of papers and books crashed to the floor, and he couldn't bring himself to clear them up. "I'm not hunting, Sammy,"

"I won't tell Dad," Sam smiled, his brown eyes widening in the way that he did to make people trust him. Dean knew that look, and he knew it was dangerous. "But you could get hurt. And you could get the people who love you hurt. Your friend? They could go after her,"

"There's no friggin' friend, okay Sammy? I lied!" Dean yelled. "And I'm not going to get hurt,"

"You might, Dean. You're my brother, I can't watch you throw your life away like this," Sam spoke with the condescending tone that he'd learnt and mimicked from their father over the years. But this time, he wasn't joking. "You're a man of letters…"

"Sam, I'm a shitty man of letters – the only thing keeping me in that school is Uncle Bobby and fact that I'm not an awful fighter," Dean sighed. Sam looked as though he was going to make a movement towards his brother, but Dean flinched and he decided against it. "You take after dad, Sam. You have this in your blood. I'm more like mom…"

"Yeah? Newsflash Dean, Mom's dead,"

Dean blinked at his brother.

"I'm sorry," Sam tried to say quickly but Dean shook his head.

"Get out, Sam, I can't…"

"I know you think-"

"Get out!" Dean slammed the door behind his brother, hoping to someone (Castiel, though he'd never admit it) that his father hadn't heard the raucous. If he found out what Dean was doing, he would have nowhere to go.

Closing his eyes in order to count to ten (the way the nice lady in the blue blouse had taught him after his mother's death), Dean inhaled. Upon letting the breath out, Dean didn't feel any better. He needed some air. Throwing off his bowtie and blazer, Dean grabbed his old hoodie, slung it on, and grabbed his keys.

But the impala wasn't empty. Sat in the passenger seat was the straight backed, trench coat wearing epicentre of the earthquake that was his problem.

"Hello Dean," he said. "I sense that everything is not okay,"

"No, it's fucking not, Cas," Dean spat, revving the engine of his baby, and backing out of the driveway with very little attention. If there was someone there that didn't want to be hit, they'd have to get out of the way. "Why the hel- why are you here, Cas?"

"You prayed," Castiel informed Dean.

"No I didn't," he denied.

"Yes you did. You hoped that your father would not hear the fight that you and your brother had shared, and you hoped in my name. You had faith," Castiel explained, but surprisingly it only made Dean speed up more.

"So what? I'm praying now? What next? I get a holy promotion to being one of God's favourite pawns?"

"Humans cannot become angels, Dean. Angel's wear humans,"

"I know, angels don't consort with humans, or whatever…"

"I suppose, I am what you might say a piss poor excuse for an angel," Castiel said; his tone was neutral, but Dean sensed sadness behind it. "Heaven is not too pleased with my… bond with you, Dean,"

"Bond?" Dean quizzed, turning to look at the angel, before reminding himself to keep his eyes on the road. He turned left on the road, hoping to get himself lost. "What bond?"

"Angels and humans can share bonds, Dean. If a human is of use to heaven; say if a human is a vessel, the angel whom owns the vessel will have a bond with the human,"

"But I'm not your vessel,"

"This is where our problem lies, and possibly the reason for my loss of power," Castiel sighed. It was such a human reaction that Dean almost swerved the car. Instead, he eased on the accelerator, and headed towards the empty high street. It was almost midnight, and no one was walking the streets. It was just Dean and Cas and the unsettling feeling in his stomach.

"I don't suppose this "bond" could piss off humans, too?" he shrugged.

"You are the expert on human sadnesses, not I," Cas replied. With one hand on the wheel, Dean pushed a hand through his hair. At the beginning of the night, it'd started so well combed.

"Sam thinks I should stop hunting. He thinks I'm going to get hurt, or get someone else hurt,"

"Your brother cares for you," Cas reiterated. "Our situations are so very different Dean,"

"What?"

"On the one hand, you have a brother who wishes you not to join the battle, and on the other hand, I have a hundred brothers telling me that the battle is my duty,"

"Well, do you want to fight?" Dean asked. Being an angel had sounded like a lot of holy grace, and telling poor teenagers that they were pregnant until he'd learnt more about it. Now it sounded brutal.

"I want to fulfil my father's wishes and my duty as his warrior, but I fear that the battles the other angels want me to fight, are not the battles I was made for," Cas's voice was strained, and Dean wondered if he'd ever spoken to anyone like this. It didn't really seem like the kind of thing he could talk to other angels about, and he felt a sudden stab of anger at the thought of Castiel sitting in another human's car, discussing battles and brothers. "And you want to fight the battles that your father is too weak to fight,"

Dean pulled into a layby on the side of the road, and stopped the engine. Without the dull roar of his baby, and the constant rumble of people's voices, Dean heard nothing. He wondered if he could ask Castiel what it was like to hear a prayer, but the silence seemed too sacred to break. Two soldiers, sat side by side, with battles they could have never expected.

"Dean," Castiel's voice was suddenly very tense. He felt as though jumping into a fighting stance, if he wasn't sat in a car in the middle of an empty street. "We need to return to your home,"

"What? Why?" Dean was puzzled, allowing the knots in his forehead to tighten.

"Samuel Winchester is begging for heavenly intervention. You need to get home now,"

It wasn't the first time that night that Dean had seen the sky licked with smoke and flames. His foot was glued to the accelerator, and his eyes were fixed on the road. Maybe it was another house on fire. Maybe Sam was just trying to help.

He reached the Winchester house before any of the ambulances or fire engines, and he was out of the door before the car had come to a complete stop. Castiel was a step ahead of him, popping away from Dean, in what Dean hoped was an act of stupid heroism. The sound of another rustle of wings and Dean's hopes were met. Castiel stood in front of him with Sam Winchester draped over his shoulders. The angel passed the boy to his brother, and was away within seconds.

Dean shook Sam, screaming his name and cursing himself for not being there. But his brother's eyes fluttered open, and Dean pulled him against his torso.

"What the hell, Sammy?" he panted against his brother's neck. Sam was less responsive, and mostly just choked smoke from his lungs.

"How did I get here?" shit – he'd have to explain about Cas.

"Never mind that for now, you're alive,"

"JESS!" Sam screamed, and tried to scramble up, but his oxygen starved muscles gave way beneath him.

Without thought Dean dove for the flames. They were boiling against his face, and he had to remove his jacket to hold to his face. Jess was in the guest bedroom, which was on the second floor, at the end of the hallway. Dean didn't know the precise source of the fire, but it had to be close by. He forced his legs forwards, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible. When he was up the stairs, he pushed forwards, and pulled the door so hard he might've broken it. Jess wasn't on the bed, and it took Dean a second of inhaling deep breaths of smoke to locate her.

She was lying on the floor; her lovely blonde hair was spread out against the wood and it almost looked like a halo. Dean urged forwards, and pulled her tiny body into his arms. She was irresponsive against his touch, but Dean heard cracks of the house now, and didn't have time to check she was alright. He sprinted as fast as he could, holding his own back to the grunt of the flames as he pressed forwards. Half of the stairs were burnt away, and Dean had to jump down them. His knee gave out, but he managed to keep hold of the girl.

Breaking through the front door into the cold air of the night, Dean was met with applause. It seemed the entire street had woken. Someone was with Sam – he recognised her as the nurse who lived a couple of doors down. But Sam wasn't paying attention to her. His eyes were fixed on Dean and the little bundle of wheatgrass hair that he held.

"I need someone!" Dean yelled, placing Jess against the grass as softly and urgently as he could. The nurse pushed forwards. "She's unconscious,"

The nurse took the pulse of the girl, two fingers pressed to the side of her throat. Dean hoped that his brother hadn't seen the expression on her face as she pulled the fingers away and pressed her lips to the girl's mouth.

Turning away, Dean sought out his father. John Winchester was lying unconscious, with another group of people surrounding him, though none seemed to be performing mouth to mouth. Castiel was stood a way off, watching with blank, withdrawn expression.

_Help_! He prayed in the direction of his angel. Castiel's face didn't change, but his eyes turned to where Dean knelt beside the young girl's body being pumped with someone else's air. _You're an angel! You need to help us!_

But Dean turned to see the flashing lights of the ambulance and the fire engine, and when he turned back to the white picket fence, Castiel was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Oh look at that – I actually updated this. Hopefully updates should be more regular, now that I've finished other projects and exams, and hopefully new chapters will be a lot better than this. Thanks for sticking around here, and reading on. Reviews are like writing steroids – And now some stuff:

The police had questions. The neighbours had questions. The doctors had questions. Everyone wanted to know what the heck had happened. But Dean didn't know, and so he had to repeat time and time again that, no, he wasn't there to help his family, and as a result of that, they were all lying in matching hospital beds wired up to matching machines.

But that was a blessing by the rest of the evening's standards. His brother and his father was both breathing (forced or not) and getting better. Jess wasn't so lucky. By the time the ambulance had arrived, or by the time the nurse had started CPR, maybe even by the time Dean had pulled her from the wreck of their burning house, it was too late. Jess' parents had been called. Dean was the first Winchester to know of her demise.

Standing in the corridors (unable to sit, or eat, or rest, as the Doctor had suggested) Dean wanted to be lying in a hospital bed alongside his brother. He wanted his own lungs filled with smoke, and mind completely unaware. That way he wouldn't have to face the Moore's, and their grief, or the hundreds of people and their constant stream of questions. He didn't want to have to answer anyone, because even though he didn't know how, he knew _what_ had happened:

He'd killed Jessica Moore.

If he'd been there to drive her home, she wouldn't have been in the guest bedroom, suffocating on carbon monoxide in the air. If he hadn't driven off a second time that night, he'd have been there to wake them and get them all to safety. And in all honesty, he had his suspicions about the start of the fire, and Dean had a feeling that that was his fault too.

A pretty nurse handed him a glass of water at about three in the morning, long after Mrs Moore's sobs had been moved to another waiting room. Her hand lingered on Dean's, but he wasn't feeling like he needed kindness. He didn't deserve it. He just sat, his fingers following the rim of the glass in a rhythm like war drums.

John woke first. He was all anger and questions and demanding to see his sons, but Dean had taken off the second he'd been informed of his father's consciousness. He may not deserve kindness, but he also wasn't in the mood for his suspicions to be confirmed by his father. This was all his fault. No, he was safer down in the parking lot, where the oldest Winchester wouldn't demand to know why Dean had run off, because he was afraid to face the truth.

But he needed to know. He didn't know how much longer he could deal with not knowing.

Remembering what Castiel had said about hearing Dean's prayers (and Sam's as he prayed for heavenly intervention), he sat himself on an empty bench and closed his eyes. The parking lot was empty and barely lit by the six am sunrise, but he still felt stupid as he pressed his palms together. If anyone knew what he was doing he'd be laughed at.

"Cas," he muttered quietly. "you big winged nuisance. I need your help," No response. "Please Cas, I need you,"

There was a quick flap of wings, and suddenly Dean wasn't alone on the bench anymore. Castiel sat beside him, he fingers knitted together, and the look on his face resembling sadness. His leg was pressed against Dean's, but their knees broke apart as the Winchester jumped in surprise. He doubted he'd ever get used to Cas' entrances. "Cas," and he wouldn't admit it, but there was something like relief in having the angel beside him.

"I am sorry for your loss," he muttered finally. Cas looked torn, just as he had stood by their garden fence watching the paramedics pump against Jess' rib cage.

"Like hell you are," Dean snapped. It hadn't been his exact intentions to shout at the angel the moment he showed up, but he couldn't stop himself. "You could have saved her,"

"I could have done nothing, Dean. I was barely able to get your father out of the house,"

"You're an angel!" Dean yelled straight into the other man's face. Castiel didn't look perturbed by his sudden outburst, but across the road he saw a singular figure throw a confused glance their way. It probably wasn't something that people were used to hearing shouted in the early hours of the morning. "You're an angel, Cas," Dean repeated in a near whisper.

"True as that may be, it does not make me all powerful," which sounded so weird coming from his mouth that Dean had to laugh.

"Oh, now you admit it," Dean rolled his eyes. "So what's the excuse?"

"There is no excuse Dean. Jessica Moore was not a guilty soul, and her life cannot be excused by some unfortunate timing. I was unable to save the girl, and so were you, but we did not murder her," Cas turned to Dean now, their eyes meeting with a mixture of uncertainty, anger, and pain.

"Then who did?" the human begged. He couldn't not know.

"Azazel," the name confirmed Dean's worst suspicions. He'd gone hunting, and everything his father and his brother had warned him would happen, had happened. "There was magic around your house this evening, Dean. And in my state I was unable to breach it,"

"Your state?" Dean looked at the angel – finally looking and saw what he'd been trying to ignore. Cas didn't just look worried or upset. He looked ill. "Cas, what's wrong?" Dean placed the back of his hand against the angel's forehead. Dean pulled away quickly – he was burning up.

"Heaven has forbidden me from searching for Azazel, and as such I am losing my… you call it mojo," Cas said gently. His eyes were sunken into his head, as though he hadn't slept in a millennia, his skin was sallow, and his frame looked slighter than Dean remembered on their first meeting. He looked so human, and despite all of it, he still managed to look all powerful, sat in a quivering and weak frame but full of brilliance.

"So the search is over?" Dean hadn't heard his voice sound like that since he was eight and his father had told him he couldn't come to his baseball game. With all the gentleness that Dean had never imagined Castiel could possibly possess, the angel pressed a hand to the human's shoulder, resting there like a promise in the air.

"If anything the search is more imperative than ever," Castiel stated matter of factly. "Azazel must be stopped at any cost,"

"Dude, as much as I appreciate the heroics, I'm not going to have them hurting you!" the human shook his head.

"I may have to fall, yes. But the bible was not written about the selfish people. I must play my part in stopping Azazel, even if heaven refuses it,"

"Fall? As in…"

"Become human,"

Dean knew immediately that he was going to have to do anything in his power to stop that from happening. Castiel was an angel. He'd be a piss poor excuse for a human being, and he would hate every second of his humanity. It worked as an unspoken agreement that if Castiel helped Dean to find Azazel and to avenge the growing list of the dead, then Dean would help Castiel. No matter what that entailed.

"Cas…" but the angel cut him short.

"You should get to your father, Dean. He is asking for you,"

"Heaven?" Dean asked, earning him a head shake from Castiel.

"The nurses,"

"Right then… see you around then, I guess," Dean said, standing and heading towards the hospital door. He didn't know how to say goodbye, and luckily neither did Castiel. The second he turned back to see the previously inhabited bench, it was empty, and the angel was nowhere to be seen.

It took a few minutes of lingering in the corridor for Dean to gather the strength to step through the doorway and into his father's room. A doctor was chatting to John Winchester, before spotting Dean in the hallway and nodding. The night staff had changed over now, and this wasn't a doctor he recognised.

"You must be Dean. I'll leave you be,"

"Thanks Doctor," John said stiffly from his bed, before hauling himself into sitting position and staring at his son. Dean stepped forwards and sat in the chair that they had especially for guests. He felt the weight of his father's gaze without having to raise his eyes from his hands, but it was nothing like the lingering feel of a hand on a shoulder.

"Dean," John said finally.

"Jess is dead, sir," Dean blurted out finally. John nodded once.

"I know. Sam is still unconscious. Thankfully," he said. "Are you're okay?"

"I'm fine,"

"Good,"

"Are we going to talk about what happened?" his father said finally. Dean coughed his cowardice from his throat.

"No one knows how the fire started,"

"Is this to do with your angel friend?" John growled.

"Cas saved you. And Sammy,"

"And you," his father said finally. "I'll make sure to give him my thanks,"

"I'll let him know,"

"No you won't. I'm not losing anyone else to one of heaven's wars," Dean looked up. His father, though frail, looked sure. What was once smoothly slick hair was now messy and untamed, much like Sam's.

"This isn't heaven's war," Dean stuttered. "This is something else entirely,"

"Let me ask you a question, Dean,"

"Yes sir,"

"Your brother has lost his mother, and now Jess. Will you make him lose you, too?" Dean swallowed hard. He couldn't do that to Sam – he couldn't completely abandon his brother. Without Dean, Sam barely had anyone. Their dad was hardly around, Uncle Bobby was alright, but not exactly a shoulder to cry on. But even so.

Azazel had taken so much from his brother, and there was nothing to say that even if Dean left him alone they would all walk away unscathed. This was something bigger than himself. It was bigger than Castiel, and even bigger than their mother's death – where it all started.

"I'm going to make him safe, Dad. No matter what it takes,"

"You're willing to risk everything?"

"Yes sir,"

"And this angel? He will keep you safe,"

"I think so," there was a silence between them, as John studied his oldest son.

"You're a lot like Mary, Dean,"


End file.
